Boys Don't Cry
by Queen of Kaos
Summary: When her husband leaves her for a younger woman, Dahlia Paxton needs a distraction from her pain. What she finds is a family in even greater need of healing than her own. TakerOC
1. Chapter 1

**Boys Don't Cry**

**A/N: I have to start this note with a HUGE thanks to Michelle05 for shaing her little trick of the trade with me! I have been working on this story for two weeks now, and I've written 10 chapters. I've been dying not to be able to post it, and now that I know the secret, I'll try my best to keep it updated fairly regularly.**

**To be honest, I think this story is turning into my favorite work to date. And that's saying something! Thanks to my beta for all of her encouragement and guidance in regards to this story. You have been a lifesaver, girl! And with that, I remind you that your reviews are appreciated. Enjoy!**

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**Have you ever heard that old adage, 'Be careful what you wish for because you just might get it'? Well, I can testify to the validity of that statement. For the last few months, I've thought nothing about that very thing. 

When Jason, my husband of twelve years, decided to leave me for one of his executive assistants, I wished like hell that the pain would go away. When it didn't subside, I began praying for anything that would take my mind off of my own misery. I started thinking that there had to be something else to focus on, something that I could throw myself into that would help mask the ache in my heart where my husband used to be.

And that's when the man upstairs decided to grant my wish. By striking one of my closest friends with a terminal form of lung cancer. Stepping in to help with her two young daughters seemed natural for me, though I couldn't help making sure God knew that this wasn't what I had in mind when I asked for a distraction. The girls were precious, and the time spent at their family's ranch was doing some good for me. For awhile, we thought things might actually work out, the doctors were confident that the chance for remission was high and that everything would return to normal within a year.

Kara Calaway was one of the coolest chicks I've ever met. Up until the day she died, she had a biting, sarcastic sense of humor and a "take-no-prisoners" attitude toward life. She was tough as nails, and not even cancer could break her spirit. I guess being married to a 6'10" brick wall of a professional wrestler contributed to that disposition, but I have a feeling Kara was like that before she ever met Mark. In fact, if I was a betting woman, I would put money on the fact that he married her because of her tendency to look him directly in the eyes and call his bull shit. I'd seen her do it, even from her bed when she had grown too weak to stand.

She was the first person I met in Houston when Jason's job relocated us here. I had been sitting on the front porch, eating a popsicle and enjoying my new home, when she and the girls, along with three large dogs, walked in front of the house. Kara didn't think twice about stopping and introducing herself and her daughters, telling me that she just lived up the road, and that I should let her know if I needed anything. A week later, she invited me to take her morning walks with her daughters. We had been friends ever since - nearly five years.

Dammit, I would take the pain of Jason's betrayal a thousand times over if it would bring Kara back. I would gladly bare the brunt of his adultery if it would return that woman to her husband and her kids. I have no job, no children, and no real legacy. I would gladly trade my health for hers, if possible. The world needs Kara. I need her.

Even now, a month later, I know that he needs her. Pulling my car to a stop in his driveway, I cut the lights and cast my eyes to the man in the spotlight of the moon, gripping the railing of the porch as he turns his face to the heavens.

His career has weathered Mark Calaway, causing him to look every bit his 42 years. At least, on a bad day. And the past six months have brought more than their fair share of bad days. He might have been an imposing figure in the ring, but he was a devoted husband when he was home. I'd only met with him on a few occassions before Kara's diagnosis, but after that? The love that they shared was so evident that it was sometimes impossible to sit in the same room with the couple without feeling vouyeristic.

Stepping out of the car, I grip a warm casserole dish in my hands and slam the door of my car with my hip. "Hey there, Big Guy," I greet as happily as I can. It's only been a month since the funeral. Still, smiling and laughter seem to have been forgotten in this house.

"Hey, Dahlia," Mark raises his hand and nods, though he doesn't move from his place, leaning his weight against the wooden porch rail as he crosses his arms over his chest.

Though I've seen his gentle side enough times to know better, I still shiver at the sheer size of the man as I climb onto the porch. I'm not tiny - not by any stretch of the imagination. - but my 5'10" frame is dwarfed next to him. "You look like you could maybe use a Cheese Steak Casserole." I show him the pan, as though he wouldn't know where I was hiding the meal.

With a slight nod over his shoulder, he returns his gaze to the yard. "You can put it on the counter with the other food I won't be able to eat."

"Oh, no," I argue, drawing an amused look of surprise from the big man. "I don't cook," I reminded him. "For anyone. Ever." It's not that I can't - I just don't like to. "You're gonna fuckin' eat this. Got it?"

Raising his eyebrow, Mark chuckled slightly and nodded his head. "Alright. Fine."

I let myself into the sprawling foyer and through the living room. Dolls and coloring books litter the floor, blankets and laundry strewn around the furniture. Mark sighs heavily as he follows me to the kitchen. I know what he's thinking. It never looked like this when Kara was alive. She would have thrown a fit and a half if she had seen the house in this degree of disarray.

But I say nothing as I enter the enormous kitchen. The first time I had been invited into the house, I commented that my entire first apartment would fit inside this one room. Kara had told me that she had to have a big kitchen to cater to her husband's big appetite. Of course, the spread of untouched dishes on the counters isn't really testifying to the big man's ability to put the food away.

"So, are the girls in bed?" I ask as I set the oven to reheat the dish I've brought him.

He's been home for nearly a month. For a guy so used to living on the road, I'm sure it's been harder than usual for him. Not only is he dealing with massive grief, but he's gotta be suffering from some serious cabin fever. The heavy sigh that he emits in response to my question only confirms what I've been assuming for weeks.

Tipping his beer bottle to his lips, he shakes his head. "Finally," he answers. "Maggie's havin' a rough day," he admits.

Maggie is Mark's oldester daughter. She's five - and a rambunctious five, at that. Even before her mother died, she was a handful, but she's not a bad kid. She's actually pretty bright, and quite funny. Her outspoken nature comes directly from her mother, but Kara always said her stubborn streak was more Mark's influence. The fact that she's been giving him a hard time is not a surprise.

"It's gonna take some time for them to adjust, I would imagine," I say, grabbing a few tupperware containers from the cabinet. Someone needs to get this food off the counter before it all ruins.

Mark's eyes follow me around the kitchen. I wonder if it bothers him that I'm so comfortable in his home. He knows that I spent most of the last five months here, taking care of everything that his wife just didn't have the energy to do herself. He knows that this is like my second home. But he's territorial. He's protective. And he's prone to mood swings, especially in the aftermath of the last month.

But he doesn't blow his cool. Reclining in his chair, his shoulders sag. He's visibly exhausted, no doubt from all of the decisions he's been forced to make recently. Not to mention the fact that Maggie, and her two-year-old sister, Annie, are a huge distraction for someone who isn't used to dealing with them. He may be their father, but he hasn't exactly been around for much of their lives. I can't even begin to imagine how difficult it must be for him to care for them now.

"Guess they're still gettin' used to me." With a huff, he shakes his head. "Seems like they should know me by now."

I want to ask him why they should. Since their births, he's barely been around at all. But it's not my place to remind him of something I'm sure he struggles with every day. "You gotta give yourself a break, man," I tell him, placing a few containers in the refrigerator and loading the glass dishes into the dishwasher. Withdrawing my casserole dish from the oven, I heap a plate for him and deliver it to the table. "You can't do it all, Superman," I wink.

He nods and takes a tentative bite of the dinner I've presented. He may pretend to be invincible, but he's hungry, and quickly devours all that I've offered. "You got any more of this?" he asks, and I drop the glass baking dish on the table. For the first time since I arrived, he smiles. "Thanks."

I busy myself with the rest of the dishes, speaking over my shoulder as I label the plastic bowls for his convenience. "So when do you go back out on the road?" I ask.

Between hefty bites, Mark swallows and gulps at his beer. It's as though he hasn't eaten in weeks. In all honesty, I'm not sure he has. "Soon as I figure out what to do with the girls," he admits.

"You can't just take them with you?" I ask, knowing full well that it's a horrible idea. When he rolls his eyes, I just shrug. "Well, you could always hire a nanny."

Shaking his head, Mark stands from the table and crosses to the refrigerator. With another beer secure in his beefy hand, he stalks back to his seat and resumes his meal. "I thought about that," he admits finally. "But Kara didn't want the girls raised by a stranger." The mere mention of his wife's name seems difficult for him, but he's still stuffing food into his mouth, so it could just be cheese catching in his throat. "I been thinkin' about askin' my mom to watch 'em," he admits, and then sighs. "But I'm not sure she could keep up with 'em anymore. She's not exactly as young as she used to be."

His mother is a delightful woman, but he's right. She's well into her seventies, and strapping her with two rambunctious little girls is probably not the best idea. "What about your sister-in-law? Or Kara's brother?"

Mark huffs at that suggestion. "Her brother would turn them into pole dancers," he scoffs. "My brother's gettin' ready to move. I'd rather have someone close by. Their lives have changed so much already," he states, his focus trained on the table as he chews slowly. "I just wanna keep things as normal as possible for them."

I'm not sure where the idea comes from, or why I'm possessed to say it out loud. But after starting the dishwasher, I lean against the sink and cross my arms over my chest. "So this might be totally out of line, but what if I did it?" His head turns slowly, as if intrigued by the offer. "I'm not exactly tied down right now," I remind him. "The girls are already familiar with me. If you're comfortable with it, I could stay here with them while you're out of town. Or they could stay at my place. It's right up the street."

He nods and takes a final bite, pushing the dish away from his place as he folds his hands on the table. "It makes sense," he agrees. "I mean, you spent a lot of time here before." He stops, as though he can't bring himself to finish the sentence. Standing, he runs his hands over his jeans and flips his long, dark ponytail over his shoulder. "Let me do some research on what a nanny makes," he starts.

But I wave my hand. "You don't have to pay me," I assure him. He clears his throat, as if he's about to tell me how preposterous that statement was. "The spousal support that I'm getting from Jason is more than generous," I admit.

"I can't let you do it for free," Mark begins to argue.

Before I proposed the idea, I knew that he was going to insist. "Then take the money that you would pay me and put it into a college fund for your daughters. Or a vacation fund. Do something special for your girls, Mark. I don't need your money. I don't want it," I tell him. "Kara was the only real friend that I had in Texas, and I want to do this for her." With a smile, I reach out to touch his arm. "And for you."

With a slight blush, he nods and exhales a heavy sigh. "You have no idea how much of a relief that is," he says.

"It'll be good for me, too," I assure. "Gives me something to keep my mind off the divorce."

He looks as though he wants to ask me about that, but I'm glad that he doesn't. He's got enough sadness in his eyes. I don't want him expending any more energy on my issues. "It's a win-win, I guess."

Nodding, I motion to the kitchen door. "Go check on your girls," I encourage. "I'll finish cleaning up, and then we'll talk about the details."


	2. Chapter 2

**Boys Don't Cry**

**A/N: Thanks for your awesome reviews, guys. I know this concept is kind of different for me, but I'm glad that you're taking the chance to embrace it. I love hearing what you think! Enjoy!

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Sometimes I think nature is kind of fucked up. I mean, life can get pretty messy, and it's ugly and depressing. And those seem to be the times that the sky is the clearest blue, and the birds are chirping like something out of Cinderella. Those are the times when the sun filters through the trees, the rays shower us with beauty that seems foreign in light of our present circumstances.

Today is one of those days. Mark is heading back onto the road, and the girls and I will begin our strange new lives together. Though his flight doesn't leave until 3:00, I promised to arrive at noon, so he can give me last minute instructions and phone numbers. Of course, my uncanny knack for losing my car keys every other day has made me nearly thirty minutes late. And the butterflies in my tummy are a testament to the fact that I'm pretty sure he's not gonna be happy about my tardiness.

Pocketing my keys, I throw my hair into a ponytail and walk toward the front door. Normally, I would bound up the steps, but I feel a little like a kid on the way to the principal's office. I've convinced myself that he's going to rip me a new one in front of his kids, and that any respect they had for me is going to fly out the window. I'm a little less than excited to step through the door.

Through the screen, I can hear him hollar up the stairs for Maggie. When I let myself in, he's cradling Annie against his hip. She's pulling on his ponytail and muttering some toddler jibberish, which I find adorable, but clearly Mark doesn't. He growls, just slightly, and grips her tiny fingers in his hand.

"Alright, Annie, that's enough," he states firmly, turning to the stairs again. "MAGGIE! LET'S GO!"

The tone in his voice is enough to make me jump, and it scares the shit out of the tiny pixie in his arms. The red bleeds from her neck to her face, and I can see her cheeks puffing. Her lip quivers, as if in slow motion, and I want to plug my ears before she wails. But time doesn't actually move in slow motion, does it? And there's no time before her gutteral scream pierces the air, causing Mark's head to draw back in shock.

"Trouble in paradise?" I smile as he sets the little girl onto the floor and put a hand over his heart to control the surprised thumping in his chest. "Maggie's upstairs?" I ask. He nods and scowls. I can already tell it's been a long morning. And I'm sure it's going to get worse. "Okay. You get that one," I point toward Annie's retreating form. "And I'll take that one." Nodding up the stairs, I offer him my brightest smile, and hope to hell he knows that I'm trying to reassure him.

Taking the stairs two at a time, I hook a left and knock on the door with the pink, bubble letters on it. "Magster," I say softly, pushing the door open to find the small girl in the center of the floor.

She is still wearing her nightgown, surrounded by baby dolls, as though she has no idea she's supposed to be getting ready to leave. "Hi," she responds, her voice barely above a whisper. She doesn't look at me, and I know instantly that she's well-aware she's going to be in trouble.

I just head to the dresser, pulling a pair of shorts and a little top out for her to throw on. "Alright, munchkin. Jump up. We gotta get you dressed so we can take Daddy to the airport."

But Maggie just shakes her straight, limp hair. "I don't wanna go to the airport," she insists, looking at me with wide eyes and her bottom lip pouted. "I wanna stay here and play with my babies."

Somehow, I have a feeling Mark has been letting her do whatever she wants in the past month. And to be fair, it's so much easier to just give in than to worry about the temper tantrums and the screaming fits that Maggie has been known to throw in the past. "We will come back and play with your babies as soon as your daddy is on the plane, okay?"

I'm not sure how much of our arrangement Mark has explained to the girls. The day after we worked out the details, I had agreed to take them with me while I ran some errands, so that he could make the calls regaurding his return to work in peace. I told Maggie and Annie that I would be staying with them when their daddy had to work, and they had seemed pleased. Beyond that, I haven't said much.

Maggie shakes her head. "I don't wanna go!"

Have you ever seen The Omen? Not the crappy remake, but the original with the kid that makes my skin crawl to this day? That's kinda what Maggie looks like right now. Narrowing my eyes, I toss her clothes onto the bed and rest my hands on my hips. "Maggie Grace, put your shoes on now," I insist. "You can bring two babies to play with in the car. Now let's go."

Though she rolls her eyes, she does as I ask. Dressed in tennis shoes and her Disney Princesses night gown, she tromps down the stairs as though I've sentenced her to a death march. Her hair is still ratted from the previous night's sleep, but I'm not even going to fight her on it at the moment. We're running late, and it's going to be tough to get Mark to the airport on time, even without traffic.

The sight that greets us at the bottom of the stairs is no better. Mark is rocking Annie, begging to be quiet, as she continues to wail. Her face is cherry red and her voice is hoarse. Her little fists are balled up and flailing at her sides as her father fights to keep his grip on his wiggling baby. Turning toward me, he gives a withering look that begs for salvation. "She won't stop," he says flatly.

Lifting her out of his arms, I cradle the young girl to my chest and rub her back. "Have you fed her? Changed her?" I nod toward his suitcase.

"When she got up," Mark answers, his voice seemingly coming from a million miles away. He is an unmatched talent in his chosen profession, and the fact that he can't grasp how to care for small children bothers him. I can hear it in the irritation of his voice.

Rolling my eyes, I point toward the door, tossing him my car keys. "You drive," I instruct, grabbing a diaper bag near the door. "I'll take diaper duty."

We tumble outside like a traveling circus: Mark with his luggage, Maggie with her dolls, and me with Annie. Mark easily drops his bags into the back of the SUV, and then looks to the house, as if he's memorizing it for his upcoming trip. There is a sadness in his eyes, and I can't help wondering how he feels. He's stepping away for the first time in a month, going back to the life he had before Kara got sick. I know it must fuck with his psyche, though he'd be damned if he was going to let any of us know it.

"Come on, Maggie," Mark motions, opening the passenger's front door for his oldest daughter. "You can ride up front with me."

I begin to place Annie into the back seat when it becomes abundantly clear that he is receiving no response. Once I've laid Annie against the leather upholstery, I stand and look to the girl beside me. She is staring at her shoes, just as her father is staring at his. Oh, they are a pitiful picture. "Maggie," I say, waving my foot into her line of vision. "Your father was talking to you. You can't just ignore someone when they're talkin' to you," I tell her. Her mother would never allow her to blatantly ignore an elder like that, especially her own parent. "That is very rude."

"Sorry, she mutters, her green eyes meeting mine as a blush creeps into her cheeks.

But I just shake my head and point toward the man who is now jittering uncomfortably near the open door of the vehicle. "Don't apologize to me," I remind her. "Talk to your daddy."

With a trembling lip, she gazes up, up, up at her father. For a moment, I can feel the tears welling up in my eyes. She doesn't know him any better than I do. Yeah, he took a couple of weeks off when she was born, but since she's actually had the ability to remember him? He's been around the house less than the kid from the feed store who brings hay for their horses.

The girls have been born into a family that everyone in town seems to feel like they know. Kara worked her ass off to make sure that the girls knew never to talk to strangers, even when they acted like they knew them and their family. Now she is expected to do just that - to relate to a man she barely knows, who claims to be her family. How in the world is a five-year-old supposed to wrap her head around that?

There is a long moment of awkward tension as Mark watches his daughter. I can see the struggle, the way he's fighting to soften his gaze, trying to appear less intimidating. Maggie just clears her throat and lowers her eyes again. "I'm sorry," she mumbles, kicking the dirt in the driveway with the toe of her sneaker.

Scooping her up in his arms, Mark sets Maggie in the front seat and buckles her in, tentatively patting the top of her head. The gesture is awkward, at best. But at least he's trying. When he shuts the door, he heaves a sigh and runs his hand over the bandana on his head. "You ready to git?" he asks and I nod, climbing into the backseat with Annie, who has decided to start bellowing for attention again.

Reaching for his arm, I give him the same strained pat that he gave Maggie. I want to give him some words of comfort, but I can't think of any. It's just going to take time. Everything takes time. Forcing the process only makes things worse. All we can do is wait.


	3. Chapter 3

**Boys Don't Cry**

There is nothing sweeter than a child sleeping. Especially one that runs you ragged when she's awake. As I stand in the doorway, watching Maggie sleep, I can't help but breathe a sigh of relief. No wonder Mark looked so haggard before he left. Losing a parent is hard enough when you understand what's going on. For her, it's hell.

When I am convinced that she's down for the count, I head back down to the living room and punch the buttons to purchase the Royal Rumble. I'm not a huge wrestling fan, but Kara always demanded that she be able to watch her husband whenever he was booked, so I have learned to appreciate it. Plus, he's made it clear that he wants the girls to see it as much as possible, to try and understand why their father isn't home with them.

I have mixed feelings on that particular request. I'm just not sure that a five-year-old needs to be exposed to the violence of Mark's profession. And even if she is, I'm not sure she'll get it. Not the way he wants her to. I don't have the heart to tell him that she never pays attention when it's on. She would rather be playing with her Barbies, or running around with the dogs. Besides, she barely stays awake past nine o'clock on a good day anyway.

When the show blares to life on the screen, I scrunch my nose to recognize the players. I know Kane, because I've met him on a few occasions. A couple of the other guys seem familiar, but I don't know them by name. With a notebook in hand, I feel like an enormous dork, taking notes so I'll be able to discuss the match with some degree of intelligence. I'm sure that Mark would understand if I didn't know what the hell was going on, but I can't stop thinking about the fact that he's used to talking these things over with his wife. His wife who knew everything there was to know about the business.

Before you get it twisted, I'm not trying to replace Kara in Mark's life. God knows, nobody could ever do that. But the transition is difficult, and I know that they used to speak of his work with such passion. And I can't bring myself to rip that away from him. He needs something to hang on to. At the moment, that something is his career, and I'm going to make sure he has someone to talk it over with, even if I don't know everything that I should.

By the time I start watching, the Rumble itself is half over. I'm yawning by the time the twentieth entrant has leapt into the ring. If I stay awake, it will be a miracle. I'd rather be working on my menues for the rest of the week, or scheduling a trip to the museum for the girls and myself. I'd rather be surfing the internet for Valentine's gift ideas. The girls need to get Mark something special, and he needs some ideas for them, too.

When a man named Shawn Michaels enters the ring, I can't help thinking of Jason. Though my ex-husband's hair is much shorter, his body was incredibly similar to this one they call the the Heart Break Kid. How ironic. Heart break. I don't even realize I'm crying until the tears drop onto my paper, causing the ink of my notes to run over the lines on the page.

Dammit. I want to believe that my heart is beginning to heal. It's been nearly four months since the separation. Two since the divorce was final. During the day, when I'm chasing the girls and playing "mommy," it's easy for shove my personal issues to the back of my mind. Who has time when Maggie is trying to paint the walls of her bedroom with my mascara, and Annie is bound and determined to figure out what dog food tastes like?

But when the girls are asleep, when there's nothing left to occupy my time? I can't help remembering the times when we would argue until we were both red-faced and out of breath. I can't help thinking about the way I would storm out of the bedroom and make my bed on the couch. And I can't help longing for the way he would sneak down the stairs in the wee hours of the morning, carrying me back to our bed and whispering his apologies when he was sure I was asleep.

I miss him. I feel like I shouldn't. Shouldn't I be able to convince myself that he lied to me? That he cheated on me? That he disregaurded my feelings completely? Shouldn't I be glad that I'm not living that kind of deception anymore? Why the hell should I miss the man that blatantly told me that he didn't love me anymore?

Because, for the better part of a decade and a half, he was the only thing that mattered to me in the world. I centered my life around him. When he asked me to stop working and be a housewife, I did it without question. Because it's what the man I loved wanted me to do. Because I couldn't imagine that there would ever come a time when we wouldn't be together.

A bone-chilling gong sounds from the television, jarring me from my thoughts. My eyes are drawn to him, a charge shooting down my spine. There is something so intense about his mere presence. Even when you can't tell just how large he is, when you can't see his long legs, when the camera is solely focused on the authoritative expression, he is a man to be respected. Wading through the smoke, his brow knitted, I find myself sitting up a little bit straighter in my seat.

As his arms pump with each step, his shoulders rolling, I scoot toward the edge of the large arm chair, focusing on each move. This is what I need to focus on, what I need to remember. Kara used to study his entrances so carefully. She would notice every expression, every shift of his hips. She could identify every physical ailment by the way he walked, and every emotion by the glimmer in his eyes.

I, on the other hand, can't see any of that. I see well-defined muscles and a lot of dark hair. I see a man who needs to learn a better eyeliner application, but whom can elicit a roar from a crowd without so much as a glance in their direction. When he takes to the top rope for what is described as "Old School," I can't help tilting my head in awe. How does a man his size manage to balance a tight rope like that? And then land on his feet when he jumps from it? His agility stuns me.

Twice, the younger men in the ring hit him, smack in the forehead, with a folding chair. That really only serves to make me cringe, and to solidify my suspicion that it's not an appropriate show for Maggie to be watching. But I can't deny that the one-on-one interaction between the remaining men is riveting. Maybe it's just because this Michaels character reminds me of Jason, and the idea of Mark beating the hell out of him appeals to me on some level. Maybe it's just because I can tell, even with no prior knowledge of the sport, that he's damn good at what he does.

Whatever the reason, the moment that he sends the other man sailing over the top rope, when the ring announcer declares Mark the winner, I jump out of my seat and squeal in a circle like a little girl. Kara would have already known he was going to win. I didn't. And I was thrilled.

Cutting the power on the television, I don't even realize that I'm humming his theme music as I head into the kitchen and look through the cupboards. I need to make a grocery list. The girls have been begging for hamburgers all week, and a quick inventory of the food situation lets me know we're going to have to take a trip into town tomorrow. Maybe I'll take the girls to the park for lunch. We could cook on the small, charcoal grills.

The ringing of the telephone makes me jump. Sometimes the house is so secluded, so quiet, that any sound will send my pulse racing. There have been nights, in the week that I've been here, that I couldn't get to sleep because I could hear the dog's nails scraping against the hardwood floors in the hallway. Crickets and the occasional distant coyote can be heard through the open windows, and my thoughts provide the final distraction from the illusive sleep that I know I'll have to find eventually.

"Hello," I answer, my voice barely above a whisper. Anything else seems disrespectful to the silence.

I hear him hiss and clear his throat. A smaller voice apologizes quickly before Mark speaks into the receiver. "Hey, Dahlia," he greets finally.

Hoisting myself onto the countertop, I swing my feet and pick at the bunch of grapes in the fruit bowel beside the sink. "Congrats, Big Guy," I say, smiling to myself at the memory of seeing him on the screen.

"You watched it?" he asked, as though he really hadn't been expecting my response.

I just mumble and chew the fruit in my mouth. Swallowing, I lean my head against the cabinet. "I did," I confirm, proud of myself for making it through, and for enjoying it. "You were impressive."

He's quiet for a moment, and then I hear his throat clear again. He grunts something to the man with him, and then returns to me. "Sorry about that," he apologizes softly. "Damn trainers think I need a shotta Cortizone in my hip."

"Do you?" I ask, pulling my legs up to sit Indian style on the broad, marble counter top. All of that abuse that he takes has to leave a lasting impression. I can't imagine he wouldn't be taking every damn pain killer imaginable. When he doesn't answer, I'm sure that I've overstepped my bounds. "I mean, of course you would know if you need one. It's your body. You would know it better than anyone," I ramble. I always ramble when I'm nervous.

I'm almost sure I hear a soft chuckle from his end. "I could prob'ly use one," he admits. "Just don't feel like dealin' with it for now." There is an awkward silence, and I hear a door opening and shutting. "The girls in bed?" he asks.

"Mm hm," I respond, popping another grape into my mouth. When I've chewed and swallowed it, I go on. "Annie was out before nine. Maggie was a little wound up, but she finally went down a little after ten." Sliding from the counter, I open the refrigerator in search of water. "They'll be up at the ass-crack of dawn, though, if you wanna call 'em then."

The 'umph' that he makes is the only sound for a moment, and I can imagine him lowering his enormous frame onto a locker room bench with great effort. "I'll prob'ly be sleepin' in," he informs me. "I'll be feelin' this one for awhile. But I'll call 'em when I get up," he promises. "So Maggie didn't see me in action, then?"

I take a long drink from the bottle in my hand before shaking my head. "Nah, she was out before then," I tell him. "To be honest, Mark, I'm not sure she should have seen it anyway." Voicing my concern is potentially dangerous, but he only grunts in response. "You were gettin' pretty banged up in there."

"It's not real," he defends.

"The blood gushing out of your forehead was, wasn't it?" I shoot back without hesitation.

I can hear items being moved, and I assume that he's packing his bag for the night, preparing himself to leave the arena. "She's watched it before," he reminds me. "I was already a fan when I was her age, Dahlia."

But his logic doesn't settle with me. I still don't like it. "She's a little girl, Mark. She wants to ride her pony and play with baby dolls. Both of them run around the house in tiaras and wanna take ballet lessons," I argue.

"She always watched it with," he starts, and then stops short. As if realizing what he's about to say, he clears his throat and swears softly. I hear another door being pushed open with a fury. "I gotta get back to the hotel," he finally says, his voice edged with anger.

I nod and set my bottle of water back into the refrigerator. Knowing that he's angry with me causes a bubble of guilt in my throat that I hate. I don't want to piss him off. He should be celebrating a really great achievement in his career, not fighting with me about how his children should be raised. "I'll tell the girls you're gonna call tomorrow," I finally manage to say.

"Don't," he orders. "I don't know what my schedule's gonna be like. I'll just talk to them when I get a chance."

"Mark?" What I am about to ask has the potential to blow up in my face. If I didn't think it was important, trust me, I wouldn't say a damn thing. Have I mentioned that the man scares me? Because he does. Flat terrifies me. But not as much as the welfare of the girls does. "Try to make the time for them, okay? It'll mean more than watching you on television ever could."

His voice is clipped and terse. "I said I'll do it when I get the chance," he repeats.

I nod and make my way slowly up the stairs. "I know it's not my place to say. I know that," I assure. "But I just can't help thinking that you have a million fans. You only have two daughters." Throwing caution to the wind, I continue without permission. "And they're growing up fast. They need to know their daddy. Not the Undertaker."

His silence screams that I have overstepped my bounds. "I will talk to you tomorrow, Dahlia," he repeats himself firmly before disconnecting the call.

Continuing on to the bedroom, I toss the phone to the side and lower myself to the mattress. Maybe he'll get over the anger before he comes home the next time. Whenever that may be.


	4. Chapter 4

**Boys Don't Cry**

**A/N: I know the alerts are messed up, but thanks to those of you who have found the updates and review them anyway. You're the best! -Rachel

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"Annie!"

Squealing happily, Annie's green eyes crinkle as she drags her fingers through a bowl of pink icing on the corner of the counter. "Yum!" she exclaims, clapping her sticky hands together before reaching for the bowl again.

I grab her hand before she can make contact with the bowl again. Beside me, Maggie stands on a stool, carefully placing individual pieces of candy confetti on her own cupcake. I know that we have to leave in about thirty minutes to pick Mark up from the airport, but the girls have been begging to bake for days, and I thought that it would be a nice way to welcome their father home.

That was before they tossed flower all over the floor and confectioner's sugar all over their faces. And before Annie had caked her hair with icing while Maggie took an hour to decorate one cupcake. "Alright, monkeys," I announce, clapping my hands together as a lift Annie from the counter. "Time to wash up."

"Nooo!" Maggie whines, lifting her custom design to my face. "I'm almost done!"

Carrying Annie from the island to the sink, I cast a glance at the white powder all over the floor. There's no way I'm going to get everything cleaned before we have to pick Mark up. He's going to come home to a filthy kitchen and he's going to fire me. It's bad enough that our relationship has been tense since our Royal Rumble conversation. This mess isn't going to help anything.

"Maggie, if we don't start cleaning up now," I start, speaking over my shoulder as I run a warm wash cloth over Annie's hands, "then your daddy is going to have to come home to a messy house. And we want the house to be nice for daddy, remember?"

I had tried my best to explain that their father worked hard when he was away, and that he needed a comfortable, clean place to rest when he returned. She had impressed me by straightening up her bedroom the day before, and Annie had even tried to help me clean the living room, and the play room. In fact, before the cupcake incident, the house had been sparkling clean and ready for his return.

"Dahlia?" Maggie's soft voice interrupts my thoughts as she tugs on the hem of my tank top. I mumble a response and try to rake the icing out of Annie's auburn hair with my fingers. "Are you really gonna leave when my dad comes home?"

Tossing the rag into the sink, I rest Annie on my hip and take Maggie's hand. I lead her into the living room and motion for her to sit in my lap. With one girl on each thigh, I do my best to contain my emotions. "You're going to spend three whole days with your daddy."

Her bottom lip trembles, and Annie watches her older sister with deep concern etched into her tiny features. "He's boring," Maggie insists. "All he does is watch his show on TV and sleep and talk on the phone. And he doesn't even smile ever at all."

My heart breaks for them. Honestly, I think the girls want to love their dad. They want to throw themselves at him when he walks through the door. They wanna climb on him like a jungle gym when he's trying to watch television in his recliner. They want him to tuck them in at night and they want to jump on him when they wake up in the morning. But they just don't know him. He's just a sad man that lives in their house.

"Okay, listen," I smile, touching both of their chins with my fingers. "Your daddy is a good man, and he loves you both like crazy," I assure them. Maggie looks skeptical, and I'm not sure Annie knows what's going on. "But he's a boy," I scrunch up my nose when Maggie does. "And he doesn't know anything about girls. So you guys are gonna have to teach him, okay? Teach him how to play with your babies and play dress up. He just needs to learn how."

Biting her lip, Maggie seems to consider the advice that I give. "But I don't think my dress up clothes will fit him," she states seriously.

The laughter bubbles from my chest before I can stop it. Pressing a kiss to her forehead, I pat her back and point toward the floor. "Alright, silly goose," I grunt, trying to stand without dropping Annie on her ass. "Go wash up and change your clothes. We gotta get movin' soon." She is on the first step when I set Annie on the ground. "And Maggie?" Her little head turns toward me. "Soap on your hands only! We washed the tub yesterday. You don't have to do it again."

She just rolls her eyes and starts back up the stairs when the sound of an engine in the driveway draws my attention. Stopping at the front door, I gasp. "What are you doin' here?" I ask Mark as he makes his way up the stairs onto the porch.

Glancing to the wooden name plate beside the door, he smirks. "I do live here, don't I?" he asks.

I just step back from the door and allow him entrance into his own home. Annie stares up at him, her eyes wide. "Ki'en dirty," she mumbles, a slight bit of apprehension hedging her high-pitched voice.

Mark's eyes flit to the kitchen, but he only shakes his head and drops his bags, lifting Annie into his arms. With a quick kiss to the side of her sugar-coated face, he touches one huge finger to her nose. "We'll just have to clean it up then, won't we?" he asks.

She nods and rests her head against his shoulder when Mark turns toward me. "Where's Maggie?"

Pointing to the stairs, I edge toward the kitchen. "She's washing her hands. I thought we were picking you up at the airport," I state over my shoulder as I head into the kitchen and fish a broom out of the closet. He doesn't seem angry, or even all that tired. Maybe this reunion will go better than I had hoped.

With a grunt, Mark huffs and I hear Annie squeal in delight. When I risk a glance, he's nipping at her fingers while she tries to pull on his ponytail. To be honest, if either of the girls is going to take to Mark easily, it's going to be Annie. She's just too young to be hold a grudge. "You taste like frosting," he says, raising an eyebrow as her arms flail toward the counter. "Did you make all those yourself?" he asks when he lays eyes on the cupcakes.

"I helped," Maggie's tentative voice interrupts the interaction. I can't see her, but I can hear the pride in her voice as her footsteps descend the hard-wood stairs. "All she did was stick her fingers in the frosting."

Stooping, Mark lifts his oldest daughter into his arms with little effort. With one against each hip, he moves slowly into the kitchen and drops them on the counter. "So lets try one out, huh?" The girls clap their hands as Mark hands them each a cupcake. "You guys made these all by yourselves, huh?"

Maggie turns on the counter and looks at me, as though asking if it's okay to take the credit. I just smile and return my gaze to the floor. "Well, Dahlia helped, too. 'Cause we can't touch the oven," she explained. "But I stirred the batter, and I frosted this one," she nodded to the cake she was working so diligently on earlier.

His eyes widen as she holds the heap of frosting toward him. "Is that one for me?" Mark asks.

Biting her lip, Maggie considers his question. I know that she made it for herself, but if she would offer it to him, it would mean the world to her father. Of course, I can't tell her that, but I hope that she knows it. Nodding slowly, she watches him set it back on the counter. "You can have it if you play ballerinas with me later."

Mark nearly chokes on his words as he considers the possibility. It's taking everything in me not to explode with laughter at the proposition. If he has half a brain, he'll agree. But he's a man's man. The thought of prancing around the house with his daughter, twirling like a tiny dancer, probably isn't his idea of a good time.

"I don't know how to be a ballerina, Princess," he excuses, smiling when Annie stands on the counter to tug his ponytail again. She's really fascinated with that thing.

"I'll teach you," Maggie offers, her eyes flitting back to me as she gives me a thumbs up, as if to make sure I know she's doing what I told her to do. I just wink and start dusting the sugar off of the counter top. "'Sides," she added, considering her father for a minute, "you already have tights."

Oh, that just sends me over the edge. I really can't control my laughter as Mark shoves the cupcake in his mouth and nods his head. When he has swallowed it whole, he kisses his eldest daughter on the head and winks at her. "Deal," he agrees.

"Okay," I interrupt the moment, feeling completely out of place in their little family moment. "I've got all the flour and sugar cleaned up," I announce. "If you wanna get settled, I'll just start the dishwasher and get outta y'alls hair."

Lifting both of the girls to the floor, Mark motions to the living room. "Go play for a minute, girls. I wanna talk to Dahlia before she goes home."

"Why does she gotta go home?" Maggie asks, her hands on her hips. "She gots her own room."

Mark sighs and mimics her stand. "She also has her own house," he reminds the young girl. "She's been here for two weeks. I'm sure Dahlia wants to sleep in her own bed."

Maggie shakes her dark ponytail, looking strikingly like her mother. "No, she doesn't. She wants to stay and play with us," she insists. "She likes staying here with us."

The accusation is probably unintentional. I'm not sure she's old enough to realize what she's said. The meaning isn't missed on Mark, though. Or on me. Quickly dropping the muffin tin into the dishwasher, I spin on my heels and drop my hand towel onto the sink. "Actually, Sweetie," I smile down at the defiant child, "I do need to get home and get some stuff done. But you're gonna have three whole days with your daddy. All by yourselves." I hope that my tone conveys the excitement that she should be feeling.

But she's young, not stupid. "But I want you to stay, too!" Maggie insists.

Before I can argue further, Mark clears his throat. This is his house. I can't forget that. And he's going to be sure that I don't. "Maggie Grace, take your sister to the play room. I'm gonna talk to Dahlia for a minute and then she'll come say bye to you before she leaves. Now git," he motions over her head with his long arm, causing the little girl to growl beneath her breath before stomping out of the room.

When the girls are gone, a heavy silence settles over the room. This man, though I've known him casually for years, is not my friend. I know next to nothing about him. And the last time we had anything resembling a conversation, I pissed him off. This isn't going to be a fun interaction.

"Alright," I finally say, if for no other reason than to break the damn tension in the room. "I know you're probably a little tired, and the girls should be ready for a nap around one," I inform him, never meeting his eye. "If you want, I can pick Maggie up for school in the morning. I know you're not much for gettin' up at six."

He nods and then lowers himself onto his favorite kitchen chair. "So I kinda blew up at ya the other night." For the first time I can remember, he seems shy. Almost nervous. For a guy who kicks ass for a living, you'd think he'd be a little less hesitant about possible confrontation. But he's blushing. Just slightly. Just a tint of pink on the back of his neck.

Moving to the table, I lower myself into a chair beside him and lean my elbows on the table. "I know they're your kids, Mark," I assure him. "I know that you have the final say on them, and I don't want you to ever feel like I'm trying to take that away from you."

"It was a lot harder to be away from them than I thought it would be," he states, staring at the floor blankly. "Never used to think much about 'em on the road. I used to go away and know that everything was under control." Glancing up, he shoots me a withering look. "No offense."

I'm not offended in the least. In fact, my heart hurts for him. He used to know that Kara was here. He used to know that the girls were being loved unconditionally. He doesn't know me. That's smart parenting, not offensive. "You have two really fantastic daughters," I compliment.

"They sure love you," he mutters.

Leaning back, I cross my arms over my chest. "They see me all the time," I remind him. It's stupid - he knows that he's not here enough. Why do I feel the need to keep driving the point home? "They wanna love you, too. You just gotta let 'em in."

"They're my kids," he states. I'm not sure if he's reminding me, or himself. But it's clear that he's thinking about something.

Anything I say from here is going to be too much. Pushing away from the table, I smooth my tank top over the waistband of my jeans and tuck my hair behind my ears. "I'm gonna go say bye to the girls." Nudging his knee with my foot, I offer him another smile, hoping that it reaches my eyes. "Call me if you need anything, okay?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Boys Don't Cry**

Three days to myself sounded like heaven after chasing Maggie and Annie around for two weeks. I love them, but the idea of having some peace and quiet, in my own bed, surrounded by my own belongings was tantalizing, to say the least. Of course, after one day, I was ready to go crazy.

I can't even tell you how many times I almost went over to the house, just to check and see how everything was going. Mark had called me twice - once to ask where Maggie's tiara was, and once to ask if I had used the cash he left to pay the horse groomer. Otherwise, I had no contact with the girls, and it was killing me.

Finally, it's time for him to head back out on the road. I know I shouldn't be excited. I know that I shouldn't approach the house with a sense of anticipation. The girls need their father. And he needs them. But dammit if I haven't been lost without them. Lost in my own dangerous thoughts. I'm anxious to get back to my new routine.

Bounding up the porch steps, I peer through the screen door and smile to myself. Slipping in as quietly as possible, I can't help resting against the banister and watching the sight in the living room. A wrestling dvd is playing on the television, something called Hell in a Cell. And I only know that because it was always Kara's favorite match to watch. Sprawled on his oversized recliner, Mark's eyes are closed in a peaceful slumber, his dark hair swirling around his shoulders haphazardly. One arm is raised above his head, the other covering most of Annie's leg as she sleeps comfortably across his chest. They are a beautiful picture.

A shuffling behind me tears my attention from the moment in the living room. In horror, I notice Maggie on her hands and knees between the island and the kitchen sink. There are bottles of ketchup, mustard, and pickle relish on the ground beside her, and puddles of red, yellow, and green smeared on the tile around her. She is humming happily as she works her hands through the concoction.

"What are you doing?" I hiss, praying that her father will not wake up.

"Hey, Dahlia!" she greets happily, jumping to her feet and wiping her hands on the sides of her pink shorts. Her ponytail bounces when she rushes to my side and wraps her arms around my legs.

I let out a little "oomph" as I continue to stare at her creation. "Maggie, we gotta get this cleaned up before your daddy wakes up, Sweetie," I try to remain calm. I don't want her to panic and start crying, but if Mark wakes up, it's going to be ten times worse. "Honey, what is all of this?" I ask, grabbing a mop from the closet. "You know you can't be in the kitchen alone."

But she shakes her head and puts her hands on her hips. "No!" she exclaims loudly. I hear the shift in the living room, the grunt of her father waking, and my heart sinks. "It's my masterpiece. You can't touch it!"

Before I can warn her, Mark springs into the kitchen, Annie tucked under his arm. She is rubbing her eyes and whimpering at the sudden wake-up, and I know that we're about to have a couple of screaming girls in our midst. True to form, Annie's wail fills the air as Mark drops her onto the counter and surveys the mess.

"What the hell is this?" his voice booms, his eyes clouded with anger.

Maggie hides behind my legs as I hold the mop loosely. "I'm gonna clean it up, Mark. It's okay. I think I can get it taken care of."

Grabbing the bottles from the floor, he flings them into the sink and look at the clock on the wall. "We have to leave in fifteen minutes," he booms, as though I don't know that. "That shit stains," he points to the mustard bottle. "What the fuck were you thinkin', Maggie?" he demands.

I can feel her shaking against me. "Mark," I start, my voice a whisper. He scares me. I know he's terrifying her. "Just calm down," I plead.

"You stay outta this," he points in my direction.

But that only pisses Maggie off. "You don't yell at her," she defends, jumping in front of me and holding her arms out as though she can shield me from his attack. "You don't even live here. Just go away!" she shouts before running around her father and streaking up the stairs.

Mark's brings his large fist down against the counter, causing Annie to squeal even louder. I want to smack him, but settle for grabbing Annie and walking her into the living room. Switching the television from bloody violence to Dora the Explorer, I kiss her head and grab her pacifier from the coffee table. "It's okay, Sweetie. Just watch Dora."

She's still sniffling when I go back to the kitchen. Mark is mopping the floor, swearing under his breath. "What the hell is wrong with you?" I ask harshly, fighting like hell to keep my voice even.

"Back off, Dahlia," he warns.

But I can't back off. Not when he's scared his own kids. Not when he doesn't seem to realize that his behavior is unacceptable. "I get that you're pissed," I tell him. "It's a fucking mess and I get that. But, dammit, Mark, you're a fucking giant. You can't just explode at them like that. You're scaring the shit outta them."

"Do you have any idea how hard it is to try to be a father for these girls? While I'm trying to get myself in condition for a Championship run? To try to balance everything by my fucking self? No, you don't." He brushes past me and slams the handle of the mop against the cabinets, running his hands over the bandana on his head. "I can't keep doing this."

There is a part of my heart that goes out to him. Kara kept his home running so that he could pursue his career full-throttle. She provided everything that the girls needed, even when he was home, so that he could focus on his career. He could slip into his gym whenever he felt like it, not just when the girls were napping. He could sleep till noon, if he wanted. Kara made him dinners specific to his tastes, and then made something else for the girls. Without her, he's lost. I can understand that. And I feel for him.

"Suck it up, Cupcake," I advise harshly, my hands on my hips. Just because I understand it, I can't encourage it. His eyes are shocked when he turns back to me. But with a shake of my head, I show him that I will not be backing down this time. "I know it sucks, Mark. I know you're grieving, and you have every right to. I think you need to do it more than you have, to be quite honest. But, dammit," I state, my hand coming down hard against the marble counter top. "You're not the only one who lost someone special here."

He chuckles cynically. "Look, I know you were friends," he starts.

But I hold up a hand to halt his statement. "I'm not talking about me. I'm talking about Maggie. And Annie. You lost your best friend, your life partner, and I'm honestly not trying to belittle that. But they lost their fucking mother." He opens his mouth again, but I'm in no mood to be interrupted. "I have danced around you, tried my best not to piss you off. I know you've been through hell, and I don't wanna make that worse for you, but I can't keep my mouth shut anymore." He is seething at my audacity, but I really don't care. What I have to say needs to be said. "Maggie and Annie need you to figure out how to be their dad. They need you to try."

As if on some kind of unspoken cue, Annie toddles into the kitchen and pulls at her father's pant leg. Gazing up at him with wide eyes, she pulls her thumb from her mouth and pushes her unruly hair from her face. "Juice?"

It's like watching a wall crumble. Mark's shoulders relax, his expression softens, and I can almost see my words washing over him. Lifting the toddler into his arms, he sets her on the counter and leans over, his hands braced on either side of her miniature form. With a soft kiss to her forehead, his eyes meet mine. "Can you get her some juice? I'm gonna go find Maggie."

I nod and grab a bottle of Pedialyte from the refrigerator, waiting for the impending tantrum that Maggie is likely to throw. She's not the most forgiving child I've ever met and the outburst she displayed moments ago is a pretty good indication that she's going to be more difficult than her younger sister.

"Dahl-a," Annie cooes, waving her bottle toward the stairs. "Pony."

Annie wants her My Little Pony. In fact, I'm kind of surprised she's not clutching it to her chest. I haven't seen her put it down since we bought it last week. "Where's your pony, Kiddo?" She points to the stairs again. "Play room?" Clapping her hands, she giggles as I lift her into my arms and head for the stairs.

The door is ajar to Maggie's room, and through the crack, I can see Mark lowering himself to Maggie's bed, the little girl staring at her hands beside him. Listening in is wrong, but I can't seem to budge from my place, just outside of their line of sight. I put Annie on the floor and watch her waddle off before turning my attention back to Mark and Maggie.

"Sorry I yelled at ya, Princess," Mark says, his voice low and sincere. Maggie just nods. "I didn't mean to scare ya," he adds. When she mutters something, he puts his arm around her and pulls the small girl into his lap. "Your mommy used to yell at me all the time for my temper," he chuckles slightly, his voice catching in his throat.

Maggie meets his eye for the first time, a small smile on her lips. "She did?"

Nodding, Mark wipes his cheek with the back of his hand. I can tell that he is fighting his emotions with everything he's got. "Ya know somethin'?" He taps her chest softly. "You look just like her, Princess."

She smiles and then licks her lips nervously, as if she doesn't know how her next statement will be received. "Daddy?" He looks at her, waiting for whatever comes next. "I miss Mommy."

His hugs her tightly to his chest and kisses the crown of her head. "I miss her, too, baby," he admits and I move to the end of the hall. There is no way that I'll be able to hide the tears in my eyes when they come out of that room.

By the time Mark finds us in the playroom, Annie has gathered every plastic pony she owns in an attempt to pack them in her diaper bag. At least her determined antics have given me something to smile about.

"You guys ready to go?" Mark asks, Maggie resting on his hip as he knocks lightly on the door.

"Pony!" Annie declares, holding her favorite pink horse out to her father.

"You can't take all those with you, Annie," Maggie rolls her eyes, her arms around her father's neck. "Daddy, tell her she can't take all those in Dahlia's car." Mark holds up two fingers and Annie grabs another horse out of her bag, clutching one in each hand in silent understanding of her father's orders.

Brushing my hands over my thighs, I make my way to my feet and sweep Annie up, following Mark down the stairs and out of the house. When the children are secured into their carseats, I ease into the driver's seat and put the car in gear. All is not right with this young family, but the tension isn't so palpable any longer. Maybe it's because of what I said. Maybe it's just because these things have to run their course. I'm not sure. And it doesn't really matter.

"So I been thinkin' 'bout this idea," Mark states when we make our way toward town. "How would ya feel 'bout bringin' the girls out to visit me on the road?" I nod. "Cause I'm gonna be in Florida next week, and I thought they might like to take a vacation."

Smiling at the extending road, I give another nod and rest my elbow on the open window. "Whatever you want, Big Guy. I'll make sure they're there."


	6. Chapter 6

**Boys Don't Cry**

I've always been pretty good with directions. As long as I have a map and a general idea of where I'm headed, I can usually find my destination without incidence. But there is no map of the underbelly of this arena, and with Annie weighing a thousand pounds on my hip, and Maggie trying to pull me down every hallway we approach, I am growing frustrated and tired.

Mark had a car waiting for us at the airport, and the driver was nice enough to deliver us here. He's taking our bags back to the hotel, so at least I don't have to deal with those. But we've been up since five, and with the excitement of flying for the first time, the girls haven't napped. They're bordering on cranky, and this day has the potential to turn very ugly. I just hope their father is in a good mood. With him, its always hard to tell.

"I think my flight gets in around noon," a gravelly voice interrupts my thoughts.

Casting my eyes to the side, my heart sinks. It never occured to me that I might come face to face with this man who reminded me so much of Jason, but he's standing a few feet away, smiling at Maggie and talking to someone on his cell phone. On television, Shawn Michaels resembles my ex-husband. In person, even moreso.

He waves at Maggie, who blushes and hides behind my legs. If I had any idea where I was going, I would just keep moving. But he's probably my best chance of finding Mark. "Yeah, I miss you, too," he speaks into his phone, his voice hushed and full of sincerity. "I love you." He clicks the phone shut and pockets it, resting his hands on his hips as he looks the three of us over. "You guys look a little lost," he smiles.

Maggie is clinging to my legs and Annie is burying her face in my shoulder. "We're looking for Mark Calaway," I explain.

Shawn nods. "Ah, yeah," he says, as though he's been expecting us. "I heard a rumor you guys might be here today." With a grand sweep of his hand, he motions for us to follow him. "I'm Shawn, by the way."

I swallow the nerves in my throat and take Maggie's hand. "Dahlia," I manage to say, hoping that he doesn't realize how uncomfortable I am with him. It's not his fault that I can't see him as anything other than the man who cheated on me and broke my heart.

"It's nice to finally meet you, Dahlia," Shawn says as he maneuvers the hallways as though he's been here his entire life. "To put a face with the names I've been praying for." His hand touches my back as he points toward another turn we are to take, and a bolt of electricity shoots down my spine. I have to concentrate on holding Annie so that she doesn't fall on her head. "Lot of people thought Taker wouldn't even come back."

That concept makes me wonder just how well these guys know the man that I know. Or how well I do. He doesn't strike me as the kind of guy who could walk away from this life, for anything. "This is his life," I manage to respond.

Shawn disagrees with a subtle shake of his head. "He loves this business, no doubt. But Kara was his life," he corrected. Smiling down at Maggie, he pats the top of her head. "Anybody ever tell you that ya look just like your mommy, kiddo?"

Maggie blushes wildly and nods her head, peeking out from behind my legs just slightly. "My daddy," she answers softly.

"Well, he's right," Shawn laughs and then turns his attention back to me. His blue eyes pierce my heart, and I almost stumble in the intensity of them. "You're doin' a good thing here, Dahlia. Taker needs the balance, and I know it helps him to know that you're takin' care of everything at home."

I just nod dumbly, unsure of how to answer that. It doesn't seem to matter, though, because we round another corner and madness ensues. People rush everywhere and Annie hides her face further in my shoulder. Maggie is clinging to my left leg and I'm sure they both think they're going to be trampled to death in the hustle and bustle. I'm kinda thinkin' the same thing.

Shawn delivers us to a non-descript locker room and knocks insistently on the door. "EVERYBODY DECENT?" he yells, cracking the door. When he receives a chorus of "yeses," he pushes the door with his shoulder and steps inside. "Taker! Family's here!"

I feel stupid standing in the doorway, but I'm not about to enter a men's locker room with two small children without a definite invitation. That would sure traumatize them for life, wouldn't it? Turns out, I barely have time to contemplate as the door swings open again and Mark's shadow falls over us.

"Hey," he greets with a shy wave, making sure that the door latches behind him when he joins us.

Throwing herself at her father's legs, Maggie wrapped her arms firmly around his knee. "Guess what, Daddy?" He stooped to pull her into his arms and kissed her forehead. "I got to serve sodas on the plane."

"You did?" he asks, mouthing a 'hello' to me before returning his attention to his daughter. "You gonna be a stewardess now?"

Maggie just scrunches her nose and shakes her head vehemently. "No, silly," she rolls her eyes and smacks his shoulder playfully. "I'm gonna be a fairy princess."

"Oh, of course," Mark laughs, turning toward myself and the sleepy-looking angel in my arms. "She take a nap yet?" he asks.

I am absently rubbing Annie's back as Mark cradles Maggie against his hip. Shaking my head, I pull back enough to look at Annie's drooping eyes. "She started to on the plane, but her ears were popping," I explain. "Sweetheart, you wanna say 'hi' to your daddy?"

At the mention of her father, Annie pulls her face from my neck and looks around in confusion. Her left thumb is firmly between her lips, but when she sees Mark, she smiles. "Daddy," she points with a small giggle.

"Hey, Angel," Mark dips to kiss his youngest's forehead. "You sleepy?"

Annie shakes her head, but can't fight the yawn that accompanies the movement. Turning her face back to me, she places a pudgy hand on my cheek. "Cena?" she asks.

If either of the girls is going to turn out a fan of her father's business, it will be Annie. Though she rarely knows what is going on, she is far more riveted by the action on a weekly basis than her sister ever is. And the shiney, spinning belt that WWE Champion John Cena carries is absolutely fascinating for the two-year-old. "We might see him, Sweetheart," I whisper, grinning at the way Mark's eyebrow shoots up. "She likes the belt."

Nodding his understanding, Mark looks over his shoulder and winces when Maggie pulls on his ponytail. "Woman," he growls, smiling to let her know that he's teasing. When she does it again, Mark rolls his eyes and turns toward the end of the hall. "Let's go see if we can find a shiney belt to keep your sister occupied," he suggests.

-----

When it was time for him to get into his ring character, Mark asked me to bring the girls back to the hotel. To be honest, I was glad for it. Splashing around in the pool and then giving the girls a bath before tucking them in helped to curb my anxiety over meeting Shawn Michaels. It's not like he was trying to pop up everywhere we went at the arena, but he was still there. Every time I turned around, I caught a glimpse of him.

Now, seated on the balcony of the hotel room with the girls sleeping just a few feet away in the room, I allow the feelings to rush over me. I try so hard to hide from them, to pretend that it doesn't bother me. I guess I keep thinking that if I push Jason out of my head, the pain will go away. Shouldn't it work that way? Shouldn't it be that the longer I put him out of my mind, the less likely I am to feel the hurt of his abandonment? My mother used to tell me that brushing dust under the rug doesn't make it go away. It only collects more dust. I so badly want her to be wrong.

Drinking the wine from the glass between my fingers, I hear the door click, swing open, and then click shut. I know that it's Mark, but turn my head to double check. He offers a wave as he drops his bag by the door and walks past the girls in their bed. His is turned down and waiting for him - another distraction to keep my mind from the issues at hand.

When he drops into the chair at my side, I offer him the best smile I can, but it's weak, at best. "How was the show?" I ask softly, as if volume will disrupt the serenity of the night sky.

"Decent," he answers honestly, nodding his head and propping his feet up on the railing. His long legs seem to stretch forever before him when he leans back and folds his hands over his stomach. "Crowd was good."

I'm not sure what to say to him. Other than the girls, we don't have a lot in common. Sometimes I want to ask him how he's dealing with Kara's death, but it's not my place. Kara was my friend. Mark is not. I don't have the liberty to ask him anything, to tell him anything. I've already overstepped enough bounds for now. Our conversation is best contained just to the girls. That's my place in his life, and his only place in mine.

"They should sleep through the night," I nod over my shoulder. "They were in the pool for about an hour, and I think that just pushed 'em over the edge." Smiling, I brush my hair over my shoulder. "Annie almost didn't make it out of the bath before she was passed out."

He just nods, studying the distant skyline. His silence unnerves me. I know that he doesn't talk about his feelings. I know that I have no right to wish that he did. But sharing the silence feels intimate in a way that makes me more uncomfortable than I want to admit. When he speaks, it shocks me. Not just this time. Every time. "You doin' okay?"

I turn my head sharply, as if to make sure he's really talking to me. Like he would be talking to someone else. With a nod, I drain the wine glass in my hand and set it on the ground. "I'm great," I assure him. "I love the girls. We have a great time together. I think they may just be the best kids in the whole world."

The corner of his lip twitches up in amusement as he nods his concession. "They are the best kids." Turning his head toward me for the first time, he takes in my expression carefully. "But I wasn't talking about that," he adds, his voice soft. Caring. Almost tender.

I don't need a tender man in my life. I don't need one pretending to care about me. Especially not him. Not when he has so much of his own shit to deal with. If I didn't enjoy taking care of the girls so much, I would tell him to shove his compassion somewhere very painful. Instead, I just clear my throat and shake my head. "I'm fine, Mark," I insist.

He just watches me, as though my eyes will defy my words the moment he turns his face. He's probably right. They're already beginning to brim with tears. I'm already beginning to crack. I don't know why I'm so opposed to him seeing my weakness, to knowing that I have emotions and fears. I don't know why I give a damn one way or the other as to his opinion of me.

Instead of sitting around, waiting for the scrutiny to continue, I reach for my wine glass and begin to stand. I hear his throat clear before I can move. "Ya know, I used to sit right there after a show," he speaks, his voice hesitant, as though he's not his brain is approving the words that are coming out of his mouth. "Just processin' whatever was in my mind. And Kara used to sit here and yap. I'd be tryin' to go to bed," he shakes his head and chuckles, "and she'd just get up outta her chair, plant herself right here," he motions to his lap, "and tell me I wasn't gettin' up 'til I told her one thing in my mind."

I raise an eyebrow and looked at him curiously. "You're not sittin' in my lap." He laughs, and I can't help but join him. When we grow quiet again, I lean my elbow on the arm of the chair. "One thing, huh?" He just nods. "That guy, Shawn Michaels?" Again, he nods. "Looks just like my ex-husband."

Hissing a breath through his teeth, Mark's face is sincerely apologetic. "I had no idea."

"Why would you?" I ask, trying to laugh him off in spite of the hurt. He doesn't need my sob story. He's got enough on his plate. "It's fine, really. Just kinda threw me a little bit."

"You think about him a lot?" Mark asks after another awkward silence. His eyes are trained on the railing again, his brow knitted in concentration.

If I hadn't already had two glasses of wine, I probably would have known better than to answer his questions so freely. But ya know what? Sometimes you just wanna talk to a total stranger who has no vested interest in the situation that's going on in your head. Sometimes you just wanna talk about it.

"All the damn time," I admit. "When I'm with the girls, it's better. They're enough of a distraction to make it seem pretty distant. But other than that? Yeah, a lot is an understatement." Standing, I wipe my hands on my jeans. "You want anything to drink?" He nods and I go to the mini-bar, returning with a couple of mini-bottles of whiskey.

Mark extends one tattooed arm and accepts my offering. "Thanks," he whispers, glancing over his massive shoulder to check on his girls. When I lower myself into the seat, he crosses his right ankle of his left knee and takes a drink from his bottle. "Did you have any idea?" he asks. My eyebrow shoots up in question, and he clarifies. "Did you see it comin'?"

I have no idea how much of my story Kara told him before she passed. I don't know what he knows of Jason. They never met. Mark was never home, and Jason never cared. I'm not sure they would have gotten along anyway. Maybe because I find Mark one of the most difficult people in the world to get to know. Maybe because it makes me feel better to think nobody would like Jason now.

Shaking my head to clear my rampant thoughts, I sigh and rake my fingers through my hair. "Not at all," I admit. I think I'm blushing. My cheeks feel warm. "Seems like I should have, ya know? In hindsight, there were signs, but I was just blind," I find myself confessing to this virtual stranger. But there is something inviting about him. Something friendly. Something soft that I had never seen before. "Ya know, I had this feeling. Like an intuition, I guess. Toward the end, I knew it wasn't going to last forever, that I was going to be alone." Taking a long drink of the hot whiskey, I swallowed hard and scrunched my nose to tolerate the burn. "It's like my brain just wouldn't believe that it was going to end."

Mark takes another drink and gives a brief shake of his head. His face reflects my words as he swallows. "Don't know if it's so much a brain thing," he responds finally. "Your brain knows. Even knows it's better that way. Less painful for both y'all." Clearing his throat, he tips his bottle once again. After a hard swallow, he runs the back of his hand over his cheek. "It's your heart ain't ready to let go."

I don't know that I've ever felt a palpable shift in the air before. Just a moment where everything changes. But in opening up, even just a little bit, with Mark, and having him reciprocate, I feel the shift. When I look at him, he's every bit as intense as he has always been. He still carries that commanding air of respectability. But he's not intimidating. He's like me: another broken heart, desparately needing someone to understand, but terrified to expose himself to anyone new.


	7. Chapter 7

**Boys Don't Cry**

**A/N: Alright, so a quick note: My original intent was to wait to post anything else until the alerts were back up. But it appears that might never happen. So the next few chapters will come fast and furious, and then there might be draught for awhile. Without boring you all, I'm going to be moving this weekend, out of state, and I'm not sure what my internet connection situation is going to be like for awhile. Hopefully, I'll be able to get as much of the story posted as possible before Saturday afternoon. And you can all cross your fingers with me that I get connected pretty soon once again. That's what I'm praying for. Anyway - Enjoy!

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"Yes, I can!"

Ah, I love a good Maggie tantrum. Especially first thing in the morning. Knocking softly on the door of their hotel room, I wait for it to swing open and let myself in to a stern-looking Mark, standing at the foot of the bed with his hands on his hips. He's wearing a pair of shorts and a white tank top, his hair matted against his shoulders. On the bed, Maggie stares back at him, the hem of her nightgown balled in her fists.

Her little face is turning red as she glares at her father. "Dahlia, tell Daddy that I can have cake for breakfast!"

Oh, fun. She knows she can't have cake breakfast. She knows that her mother never let her have it. She knows that I don't let her have it. And she knows there's no way in hell that I'm gonna back her up here. Gotta admire the girl's determination, though. She knows what she wants, and she's not afraid to go after it.

Mark doesn't move his gaze from his daughter. It's clear that he doesn't care what anyone else thinks at the moment. "Maggie Grace, we don't have time for this," he insisted, pointing to the bed. "Sit your little fanny down and eat your breakfast."

It's almost as though it happens in slow motion. Twisting her face, she looks at the scrambled eggs room service has already delivered. And she spits on them. Yep. Just puffs her little lips and spits on the plate. But that's not enough for Maggie. So she rears back and kicks the plate across the bed. Scrambled eggs scatter against the dark, plumb-colored mattress. Turning back to her father, she sticks out her tongue.

My first thought is to grab Annie and run for cover. But she's sitting on the floor, watching a Dora dvd and eating her toast with a smile on her face. Why disrupt her if she doesn't notice the ceiling's about to fall in? Maybe because I'm thinking about saving my own ass, too. I've seen Mark angry at home, and angry in the ring. But I don't know if I've ever seen him that shade of red.

His hands form into fists at his sides and he turns his head to take a deep, visible breath. Letting it out slowly, he levels his daughter with a look that would make most of his co-workers cower in fear. Meeting my eyes, he growls and then runs his fingers through his hair. "I'm gonna take a shower. Can you make sure she eats something before I get out?" I nod numbly. Like I'm gonna tell him "no." Looking back at Maggie, he points to the bed. "Sit your little butt down and think about that outburst, little girl," he orders. "It's the last one you're gonna throw for a good, long while."

With that, he stalks into the bathroom and slams the door. When I finally manage to look at Maggie, her bottom lip is quivering and she's picking at the shards of her breakfast at her sides. My heart goes out to her, but I can understand her father's anger. I can't coddle her. It will defeat the purpose. Sometimes it's hard to remind myself that he's the parent and my job is to support him. Besides, I'm in total agreement with him on this one.

After ordering another breakfast plate from room service, I busy myself with packing the girls' suitcases. Mark will ride with us to the airport, say goodbye for another couple of weeks, and then head off on a flight of his own. I'm actually impressed with Mark's restraint. He was as mad as I've ever seen him when I walked into the room, but he took a breath and he forced himself to step away before he scared his daughter to death. I don't know if that's my influence, after our last conversation about his temper, but whatever the reason, I'm impressed with his effort. Oh, I know Maggie's still gonna get the punishment of her short life, but it will be disciplinary, not reactionary. That, in my mind, is progress.

I'm aware of Maggie's eyes on me as I zip her suitcase and set it to the side. I can't help wondering if she knows that her daddy's not going with us. Does she realize that she's not going to see him again for another two weeks, at least? Is that part of the reason she's acting out now? Their relationship has come a long way in a short period of time, and I can't help wondering how she thinks. Is she afraid of him leaving again? Is she angry because he's not coming home with us? I wish I could ask her, but I have a feeling she wouldn't tell me. Not with tears pouring down her cheeks already.

When Mark steps out of the bathroom, toweling his wet hair, I grab a pile of clothing from the dresser and catch the loving look of a father, struggling with the idea of punishing his daughter, as he watches Maggie crying on the bed. I sweep Annie up in my arms and head for the bathroom. "I'm gonna get their bathwater started," I tell him, shutting the door behind me.

Annie cooes and giggles on the counter, stripping her nightgown over her head as I bend over the tub and start the water. I don't want to hear what's happening in the other room. It's none of my business. I've made it my own rule never to spank the girls - they're not mine, and I don't feel like it's my place. I know that Kara had no trouble popping the girls' bottoms if they defied her, or if Maggie mouthed off. And I assume that Mark is following suit. I just think that it's a personal moment between them, and I have no business listening in.

The bath is filled in ten minutes, and I have to shut the water off. Stripping Annie, I set her in the tub and smile as she splashes the warm water around her. Though her speech is limited, at best, Annie has the most joyful aura I have ever seen. Sometimes, when I'm rocking her to sleep, or even watching her play with one little pony on the living room floor, I can't help wondering if my own kids would have been like her. I know that it's for the best, the fact that Jason and I never had children, but the girls have added so much to my life in the short time I have known them. It's another thing that flairs my anger toward my ex-husband sometimes.

Too busy. That's what he always told me. Our lives were too busy for children. He worked too much, and I had social functions to attend to. Yeah, because being his trophy wife had taken far too much of my time. Turns out, he just didn't want to divide his time between work, a family, and his mistress whore.

Before I can get too angry, though, Annie's giggle interrupts my thoughts. She holds a blob of bubbles to her face and blows them, clapping her hands together as they scatter into the air. "Bubbles!" she shrieks, repeating the action as I work baby shampoo into her dark hair and rinse it away.

When she's cleaned, dried, and dressed, I risk opening the bathroom door. It's been nearly fifteen minutes since I left Mark and Maggie alone, and I can only hope that it's enough time. Maybe I should have waited until they came to me. Of course, the door is open before I can retract my decision.

Annie barrels out of the room and launches herself at her father's legs. He's sitting on the edge of the bed, his eyes rimmed red as he rubs Maggie's back. Her face is buried in his neck while he rocks her back and forth, whispering something in her ear. When he grips her tighter, bending to lift Annie into his embrace as well, I have to shut the bathroom door.

I wish that I wasn't so emotional. I really do wish that I could see a loving exchange between the girls and their father without bursting into tears. But there is something about that man, so stoic and powerful, cradling his daughters against his broad chest. There is something about his demeanor, the way his defenses seem to crumble, that pierces my heart straight through.

As stupid as it probably sounds, I'm a little bit jealous. Not that I have any romantic feelings for Mark whatsoever. But because sometimes I feel like a vulnerable child. And sometimes, all I really want is to run into a pair of strong arms and bury my face in a massive chest. Sometimes I long to have deft fingers running through my hair while a deep, confident voice tells me that everything is going to be alright. At the moment, I wish that I was one of his girls.

Sinking against the door, I cover my face with my hands and heave a deep sob of anguish. I have to pull myself together. I can't keep falling apart every time I'm around him. If Mark starts to think that I can't handle my own shit, he's going to fire me. He's going to take the girls away. I can't lose them. I can't NOT be a part of this family. Not now. I need them.

Splashing water over my face, I have finally managed to compose myself when Maggie throws the door open. "Time for my bath, Dahlia!" she exclaims, ripping her nightgown over her head before she hops into the tub. Shuddering, Maggie bounces back out and looks at the water as though it bit her. "It's COLD!"

Her reaction brings a mangled laugh from my lips as I pat the remains of my tears from my cheeks. "That's because it's Annie's old water, Silly Goose," I tease her, moving to the tap to run new water. "Now, I want you to watch this and make sure it doesn't get too full, okay?" She nods dutifully. "And when it's full enough, get your daddy to turn it off. I gotta go get my suitcases."

I bend to kiss the top of her head. Part of me wants to make sure that she knows I wasn't ignoring her earlier because I was mad, to let her know that I still love her to pieces. Stepping into the bedroom, I pull my tank top over the waistband of my pants and gather my hair on the top of my head. "I'm gonna go get my luggage and stuff. Can you make sure she doesn't let the bathroom flood?"

Mark is reclined on the bed, holding Annie in his lap as he watches Cold Pizza on the ESPN. Checking his watch, he gives a nod. "Yeah, sure." Turning his head to the side, he considers my splotchy cheeks. "You 'kay?"

Dropping my hair, I nod vigorously. "Fine," I assure him with a forced smile. "I'll be right back."

-----

"Are you sure you can't come with us?" Seated in the chair beside her father, Maggie stared up at him with wide eyes.

We got through security with few problems, and found that Mark's flight is departing only three gates from ours. He'll have to wait another hour after we are gone, but it's nice to have him around while we wait. The girls are sitting much more still with him around than they did at the airport in Houston. For that alone, I could buy the man more beef jerky than he could ever eat.

Nodding, he holds Annie's fingers away from his beard. "I wish I could, Princess," he admits, using one hand to readjust the bandana covering his head. "But I gotta keep workin'," he pouts, running his beefy hand over the top of her hair. "I'll be home soon, though."

I lean back from my seat on the other side of the small girl, watching her little legs kicking lazily. Aside from the fact that we're sitting in an airport terminal, I can't help wishing life was more like this more often. The girls are becoming more at ease with Mark, and he seems to be more comfortable around them. There is a peaceful feeling that settles over all three of them, even in the hustle and bustle of this chaotic setting.

"Can we get a kittie?" Maggie asks suddenly.

Mark chuckles. "What?"

I bite the inside of my lip as Maggie climbs up into her chair, resting on her knees as she grips as much of his leather-covered bicep as she can hold in her petite hands. "I want a kittie. A pretty white one with a cute, pink nose," she pleads.

"I don't see why not," Mark shrugs, glancing over the top of Maggie's head to see my expression. "What?"

Shaking my head, I dig into my purse, withdrawing a cookie for Annie. "Nothing," I mumble, smiling as the small girl takes the treat and nibbles at it, giggling as she chews.

But Mark isn't going to let it go. Damn his powers of observation. "You made a face," he accuses, pointing one of his long fingers in my direction.

I turn my head again as Maggie spins her seat to face me. "You don't like kitties, Dahlia?" she asks, her expression confused, as though she can't imagine anyone not liking cats.

"No, I do," I assure her, handing her a cookie, as well. "They are beautiful animals," I add, my smile forced on my lips as I look back into my purse.

Mark laughs when I had him a cookie, too, hoping that he'll drop the subject. "What?" he asks, popping the entire cookie in his mouth at once. "You have a bad cat experience?"

Blushing, I lower my eyes and smile in spite of myself. It's not a big deal. Honestly, it's not. But there's something about the way he's teasing me that makes it seems like it is. "No, it's nothin' like that," I say, risking another glance through lowered lashes. Why am I so damn embarrassed to meet his eye? Why am I acting like a coy school girl? And why do his eyes look so damn green in this lighting? "I'm just allergic."

"What's that mean?" Maggie asks, both of her hands on my leg.

Mark nods and puts a hand on the top of Maggie's head, turning her attention back to him. "It means you're not gettin' a kittie, Princess."

"Oh, no, it doesn't," I interject. I can't stand the sad look in Maggie's eyes. My allergies can be pretty annoying, but there is no way that some watery eyes and sniffles are gonna destroy the light that filled her face when her father said she could have a cat. "I'll be fine, Mark. Don't worry about it."

He just rolls his eyes and leans back in his seat, one hand on Annie's back as the other extends across the backs of mine and Maggie's seats. "You live in the house, too, Dahlia. What are you gonna do? Start sleepin' on the deck?"

I would shoot back with something witty, but the way he speaks is sticking in my head. He's referring to me as a part of the family. As a part of their world. So much a part that my allergies affect the pets that the girls can have. I know it's simple, but right now, it feels like the most significant thing in the world. And dammit if it doesn't make me blush again. "I'll call the doctor when I get home. Maybe I can get a prescription or something."

Glancing down at Maggie, I see her biting her lip and turning her head from side to side. She's thinking. Processing. Biting her lip just like Kara used to do when she was trying to work something out in her mind. "Are you 'lergic to all sortsa animals, Dahlia?" she asks me, her voice filled to the brim with curiosity.

I shake my head and push her hair behind her ear. "Nope. Just cats."

"What about a dog, Princess? You wanna get a puppy?" Mark asks.

But Maggie grunts. "They're for boys," she mumbles. "What can we get that's for girls, Dahlia? That won't make you 'lergic?"

"Well," I start, pulling her into my lap, "when I was your age, I had a bunny named Dutchess. She was soft like a kitten, but she didn't make my eyes water." I wink when her eyes double in size.

Mark doesn't even wait for her to ask. "When I get home, we'll go shoppin' for a bunny." Maggie shrieks and claps her hands as the attendant announces the pre-board on our flight. Standing, Mark hitches Annie on his hip. "That's y'all," he says, resignation evident in his eyes.

"Daddy. No bye bye," Annie shakes her head, her bottom lip puffing out.

Kissing her forehead, Mark holds her above his head and looks up into her eyes. "You be good for Dahlia, okay?" She giggles when he drops her back to his chest. "I'm gonna buy you a new pony 'fore I get home, a'ight?" The mere mention of the word causes his youngest daughter to throw her arms around his neck in jubilation. Passing her off, he lifts Maggie into his arms and accepts her tight hug with a soft groan. "You're gonna be good, too, right?"

Maggie just nods and pulls away, her hands on both sides of his face. "Promise you're gonna come home soon?"

"Promise."

Holding her arm out, Maggie motions me to them. "And promise me we're gonna get a bunny?" Mark promises again. "And promise me that you're gonna call me and Dahlia everyday so we know you're still alive."

The silence envelopes our small group, and I feel the emotion bubbling in my throat once more. I can't, for the life of me, keep it together this weekend. What the hell is wrong with me lately? Maybe it's PMS.

But I'm not the only one affected this time. Mark is fighting like hell to keep his tears at bay, as well. The statement is so telling. I'm not sure either of us have fully realized how much Maggie has observed. I know I haven't given her much of a chance to talk about her mother and what happened nearly three months ago. And I know it's still hard for Mark to talk about it, let alone give Maggie the chance to express her emotions.

"I will call every day," Mark promises, hugging her tighter before returning her to the floor. "You guys need to get goin' so you get the good seats," he plasters a smile on his lips and nods toward the gate.

With a sympathetic smile, I grip Maggie's hand and struggle to balance Annie and my suitcase in my hand. Maggie pulls hers behind her and proudly hands her ticket to the attendant. As we walk into the tunnel, I look down, just in time to see her look back at her father and offer a sad, little wave. The plane is not a place to discuss Kara with her, but I vow that Maggie and I are going to sit down and talk about anything she wants to talk about as soon as we get home. And who knows? Maybe helping her come to terms with what has happened will help me, too. God knows something better help me soon.


	8. Chapter 8

**Boys Don't Cry**

I suppose the excitement of our weekend with Mark was just too much for the girls, because they were knocked out in the car by the time we arrived home. By the time I got them settled into their beds, I was feeling pretty tired myself. I have to tell ya, I don't think I've taken a nap in the middle of the afternoon since I was in college, but it was kind of nice to rest my eyes for an hour.

The ringing telephone wakes me from my slumber. "Hello," I mumble, rolling beneath the covers to check the time on the clock.

"Dahlia?" I mutter a confirmation, though I can't help wondering who he suspected would answer. "Did I wake ya up?"

"No," I lie, fighting to sit in the darkness, taking just a moment to remember where I am. Throwing the covers to the side, I stumble just a bit and then gain my footing and head into the hall. "How was your flight?"

Mark sighs heavily. I know that, if he's still wearing his bandana, he's running his hand over it. "Felt like it took forever," he admits. He hates to fly. Hates that the seats aren't built for a man his size, that he has to sit with his knees to his chest for the duration. With the hip and knee problems that he has, it's a wonder he's able to stand after a two-hour flight. "How're the girls?" he asks.

I peek in Annie's room to find her in the fetal position, hugging a stuffed pony and sucking her thumb. "Annie's still sleepin'," I answer, turning to the other side of the hall. Opening Maggie's door, I can't help laughing. "And Maggie's about to fall on her head," I inform him.

"Tell her I said stop jumpin' on the bed," he chuckles.

But I shake my head and move into the room. "No, she's asleep," I tell him, cradling the phone between my cheek and shoulder as I gently reposition the snoozing child on her bed. When I entered, her torso was hanging off the edge of the mattress, and while I'm sure she was secure, one wrong move would have cause a self-induced pile driver.

Did I just make a mental wrestling reference? What the hell is this family doing to me? I chuckle to myself and hear Mark clear his throat. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing," I shake my head, tossing my hair over my shoulders as I leave Maggie's room and head down the stairs. I'll just make dinner and then wake the girls - they can't sleep much longer or we'll be up half the night. "Just a random thought," I add as I enter the kitchen and open the refrigerator.

"Ah," Mark mumbles, and I hear him talking to someone in the background. "Sorry 'bout that," he apologizes when his attention is returned to me. "Checkin' in to the hotel," he adds.

I'm not sure if he realizes how much he groans when he walks. It's not terribly noticable, but each step seems to bring an audible cringe. I can't help wondering how long it's going to be before he hangs up his boots for good. Is it wrong that I hope it's not for a while? That I hope he still has years left in him? I know that when he's ready to settle down, I'm going to have to go back to my own house, my own prison, and I'm just not ready to think about that yet.

His deep voice interrupts my rambling thoughts once again. "So I was thinkin' on the plane," he says. "Do you think you could maybe talk to Maggie? 'Bout what she said at the airport?"

Originally, I had been intending to do just that. And then, on the plane, I had decided it was something she should probably discuss with her father. He surely knows more about it than I do, doesn't he? "I actually wanted to talk to you about that," I say, pulling hot dogs out of the freezer, along with a box of frozen macaroni and cheese. It's an easy meal, but no kid can resist the power of the hot dog/mac 'n cheese combo. "I don't mind doing it, Mark, but don't you think it would mean more coming from you?"

There is a long silence on his end, and I'm scared that I've once again said too much. Normally, I don't mind being opinionated. If you don't agree, that's not my problem. But with him, in this situation, I can't bare the thought of hurting him any further. Not when he has so much grief already. If I somehow, even inadvertantly, do more damage to his broken heart, I'm going to feel like the biggest shit on the planet.

"I will," he assures me finally, his tone calm and low. "Just not sure I can right now."

I can hear the emotion in his voice over the click of his hotel door sliding into place. "I understand," I assure him. Casting a glance at the clock over the stove, I take a deep breath. My next question could blow up in my face. "I was wondering, though, if you minded me using that box of pictures in the guest room."

He grunts, and I'm not sure exactly what that means. It's hard enough to understand his non-verbals when he's standing in front of me. Over the phone, I'm virtually lost. "I forgot about those," he admits. "Put 'em in there after the funeral. Couldn't stand lookin' at 'em."

"I don't have to," I start, checking the macaroni in the oven.

"No," Mark interrupts. "It's fine. Just wasn't a good time," he mumbles. "What're ya gonna do with 'em?"

Pulling the boiling hot dogs from the stove, I toss a dish towel over my shoulder and start for the stairs again. "I thought it might be easier for Maggie to talk about her mom if we went through some pictures of her. I have a bunch of scrapbooking stuff at my house. I'm thinking I might have the girls put together a book about Kara," I lay out the plan, waiting for him to shut it down.

With a soft chuckle, he sighs, as though a weight is lifting from his chest. "Sounds like a good idea," he praises. "I gotta get to a meeting," he changes subjects abruptly. "But I'll try to call before the girls go to bed."

After our good-byes, I head up the stairs. I'll take them to my house after dinner, gather my colored paper, stamps, and stickers, and we will talk about the coolest woman they really never got a chance to know.

-----

Ya know how, sometimes, you think you've got a good idea, but it blows up in your face? And then, sometimes, it turns out to be exactly the perfect thing? The scrapbook is the absolute perfect thing. When I spread the materials out on the kitchen table, Annie became instantly infatuated with a sheet of stickers, but Maggie had been drawn to the box of pictures.

I stumbled on the box accidentally during my first week with the girls. Hanging some of my clothes in the closet, I had tripped over it, nearly taking everything I had hung to the floor with me. My original thought had been to use my free time, the days when Mark was home with the girls, to put something together for them at my house. I was going to make it a Christmas present. But now, as Maggie fishes through the photos and laughs at her mother's various styles over the years, her giggle tells me this project is so much better than my original idea.

"Look at this one, Dahlia!" Maggie laughs loudly, handing me a picture of Kara making a goofy face while Mark rolled his eyes in the background. "Mommy was silly, huh?"

I smiled as I looked at the photo, putting the finishing touches on a page of the girls' baby pictures. "She was funny," I agree with a nod. "Last year, for her birthday, we went to a restaurant for dinner," I recall immediately. "And at this restaurant, when it's your birthday, you have to stand up by the table and wear a silly hat while the waiters sing happy birthday." Maggie giggles and claps her hands over her mouth, her eyes wide with anticipation. "So your mommy had to wear a huge, rubber cowboy hat - ya know how Annie looks in your daddy's cowboy hat?" She nodded. "That's how your mommy looked. It was orange, and it had a big, blue band around it. But you know what was cool about your mommy?"

Maggie shakes her head. "Tell me," she gasps, nearly climbing on the top of the table for the next nugget of information.

"Your mommy," I say, exaggerating my voice for the effect of the story, "absolutely hated being the only person in the room having fun and being silly. She wanted to make sure that everybody who hung out with her had as good a time as she was having."

With a chuckle, I remember the night we had celebrated Kara's thirtieth birthday. She had been slightly bummed that Mark wasn't going to be home for the special occasion, but she had shrugged it off and insisted that we were gonna party like single girls all night long. "They gave your mommy a little pony like Annie's to ride around - ya know the one with the head on the broom handle?"

Maggie nods as Annie claps her hands and shrieks. "Pony!" she exclaims, her green eyes dancing at the very thought.

I can't help dropping a kiss on her forehead before continuing the tale. "Yep. But your mommy said that it wasn't fair for her to have all the fun. She said I needed a hat, too. We put the hats on, and took our ponies, and galloped all over the restaurant. People were watchin' us, and cheerin' for us. Your mommy knew how to make people laugh."

"That's so silly!" Maggie howls, her tiny laughter filling the room. I defy you to listen to a child laugh and NOT, at the very least, crack a smile. It is the most beautiful sound in the world, I think.

I nod and take the picture, finding a couple more that highlighted Kara's sense of humor. "Annie, can you hand me that sheet of stickers?" I point to one with smiling lips and "lol" in bubble letters. She does as she's told, smiling proudly when I call her a good girl. "Let's a make a page with your mommy's silly faces, okay?"

For another twenty minutes, we work on special pages. Kara laughing. Kara on the girls' birthdays. Kara with the horses. Kara in the pool with the girls. I am purposely saving specific pages of she and Mark. This book is for the girls. I think I'll still do the Christmas book for him, with nothing but pictures of he and his wife. It will take me a little bit more time, but I think that he will appreciate it. I hope that he will.

"Dahlia?" Maggie's asks. I mumble a response as I focus on the page before me. "Why's my mommy's hair pink?"

My head snaps up. Looking at the picture brings a lump to my throat. It was taken at a wig shop in downtown Houston the day after we had shaved her head. She insisted that she didn't want Maggie to jump on the bed one morning and realize that Mommy's hair was falling out. She didn't want Mark to come home from the road and find a wad of her locks in the trash can. She just told me that the girls were staying with her mom for the weekend and that she wanted to hang out. When I arrived at the house, she handed me a pair of clippers and said that we weren't gonna give the cancer the satisfaction of stealing her hair. We were gonna beat it to the punch.

I'm not sure how many wigs she tried on that day - everything from the pink "rave" wig in the picture, to a long, black wig that she christened the "Ministry" look, in reference to her husband's former ring persona. She bought eight of them that day, all different colors and shapes. I couldn't help smiling when she told me, in the car on the way home, that she was going to be the cutest damn Cancer Chick in the whole fuckin' world. Ya know what? She really was.

"That's a wig your mommy bought," I tell her finally, wondering how much I should share. I wonder what she can handle. How much can I tell her without scaring her or making her cry. "Do you remember when your mommy had new hair every day?" I ask.

Maggie nodded and sat the picture down on the table. "'Cause she shaved her hair all off," she answered, surprising me. "She said new hair made her feel better." I nod, fighting the lump that has jumped into my throat. "Dahlia, my mommy's not sick anymore, is she?"

I shake my head and push away from the table. Grabbing Annie, I move toward Maggie's end of the table and motion for her to stand. When both girls are secured on my legs, I take a deep breath. "Sweetie, your mommy is all better now."

"Why couldn't she get all better here with us?" Maggie asks, her voice timid, almost shy. Maggie Calaway is a lot of things, but timid has never been one of them. "Why couldn't we make her better?"

"Oh, Sweetie," I sigh, hugging her to my chest and kissing the top of her head. "I don't know."

I'm not a mom. I can care for these girls, make sure that they have their basic needs met, and help them develop into respectable women. But I don't have all the answers. I know moms probably don't, either, but I feel like someone is expecting me to drive a monster truck, when all I've ever handled is a Tonka model in the living room. God knows I've fucked my own life up. What in the world makes me think I'm not gonna do the same thing with these kids?

Every word I say to them is infinitely important. Everything that I do, they're watching. I'm not sure what comes next. I don't know what to expect, and I have no idea how to react. I wish that Mark was here. It might be hard for him, but I'm not sure he knows just how impossible this is for me. Yeah, I'm an outside party. But she was my friend, dammit. And it's not the same as being married to her, or mothered by her, but I haven't taken the time to grieve the loss of my friend.

I thought that I wouldn't need to. I thought that being there for the girls would help me cling to her memory, that she wouldn't really be gone if I was surrounded by them. But she is. She's not here. And I'm trying to fill the biggest set of size seven shoes in the world. Suddenly, I wonder who the hell thought it was a good idea to put me in charge. I can't fucking do this. I can't be what these girls need me to be.

The tears are spilling over my cheeks before I realize it. When Annie runs her pudgy finger over my damp face, I try to smile and assure them that it's okay. My actions are defying my words, but I really don't know how to be anything but honest with them. "You know somethin'?" They are both watching me, hanging on my every word, and I am scared shitless. Moreso than I was when I realized Jason was leaving me. More than I have ever been. "Your momma was such a special lady, girls," I whisper. "And maybe," I wipe a tear and sniffle, "Maybe God wanted to make her better himself. She was so special, and I have a feeling maybe he needed an angel to help him make heaven happier."

"But there are other funny people," Maggie argues, tears falling down her own face. "Why did God have to have her? We weren't done with her yet. It's not fair."

I can't argue with that. "No, it's not," I agree, resting my forehead against hers. "Ya know what, though? It's okay to be sad. And it's okay to be confused. I'm a grown up, and I don't understand it, either." She just squeezes her eyes shut. "Maggie, it's okay to cry, Sweetheart." Forcing myself to release the tears I've been holding back, I show her that there's nothing wrong with showing her emotions.

She lets her tears fall, and without a word, Annie reaches across my lap to hug her big sister's neck. I know that the youngest girl has no idea what's going on. She just knows that Maggie isn't happy, and she wants to help. Maybe she's more like her mother than I had originally thought.

As they hold each other, I wipe my own tears, hoping that this is some kind of break through. I hope that I've done the right thing. I hope that it's helping. In one evening, I've realized that I have no idea what the hell is going on in the world I have created for myself. I can only hope that I can figure it out as I go.


	9. Chapter 9

**Boys Don't Cry**

Have you ever noticed how kids always seem happier when they are a mess? I'm talkin' a mud-from-head-to-toe, brand-new-dress-completely-destroyed, that-shit-ain't-ever-comin'-out mess. And they just howl with gleeful joy, as though they have no idea that they're totally unpresentable. But I think that I've finally figured out why they insist on irritating us with this "unacceptable" behavior. Why it's such a draw for a child to get their hands, and everything else, hopelessly dirty. Because it's freakin' fun!

Keeping the girls in the house for three days while storms raged around the ranch wasn't easy. So when the rains finally subsided, and Maggie begged to go see the horses, I couldn't very well tell her "no." They had been nothing less than angellic while locked in the house, and I just couldn't bring myself to deny them their request, even though I knew the barn would be nothing but slimy mud.

Like a fool, I tried so hard to keep them from getting dirty at first. I held Annie tightly to my side and continually told Maggie to slow down and watch her feet so she wouldn't fall. I told her not to lean on the stable gate, for fear that she would get dust and dirt on the front of her pink tee shirt. It didn't take long, though, for me to realize that they were going crazy trying to follow my rules.

When I loosened the reigns and let them play like they wanted to, their laughter filled the air like a symphony. Yeah, I cringed when Annie slipped, splashing muddy water all around her in the wake of her fall. I almost blew when Maggie accidentally kicked mud onto my newest pair of jeans. But when she giggled her insincere apology, I couldn't stay mad. Not when her face was glowing like it hadn't in days.

"Maggie," I call out, my voice strangled by the sound of my own chuckle.

When she turns, I can't help laughing again. She has brushed her falling ponytail out of her face so many times that her face is streaked with dried mud, but her smile doesn't fade. She is happier than I have seen her in months, and I wish I could keep her here, in this moment, forever. "Look, Dahlia!" she points to the horse, nibbling feed out of the palm of her hand. "Sugar's tickling me!"

Sugar is a black beast who's stature defies her name. When they bought her, Maggie was three. Kara had nearly doubled over when she relayed the story of how Mark had been so proud of his new baby, and how he had poured over names for a month before she arrived at the ranch. He was set to christen her "Raven," when Maggie insisted that the horse be named "Sugar." According to Kara, Mark had snarled and pouted for hours, mostly because he knew he didn't have a chance of getting his way.

"Watch your fingers," I warn softly, standing beside her as I run a hand over Sugar's soft muzzle. She's snorting as she eats, but never moves her head. "Come here, Annie," I motion, stifling a giggle when the toddler makes her way through the uneven mud. Lifting her into my arms, I nod toward the horse. "Wanna give Sugar a kiss?"

"She's givin' Sugar sugar!" Maggie explodes, cracking herself up with her own joke.

I can hear the rumbling of an engine in the background as Annie leans across my body to press her little lips to Sugar's nose. Casting a glance over my shoulder, I smile to see Mark stop his truck and ease out of the drivers' seat. His brother came by yesterday to deliver the vehicle to the airport, stating that it was silly for me to pack up the girls when his brother could drive his damn self home.

"DADDY!" Maggie shrieks, running to him and throwing her body against his white sweat pants. I cringe, but he just smiles and swings her up onto his hip, paying no mind to the muddy streaks she leaves behind. "Sugar let me feed her!"

He raises an eyebrow as he continues toward us. "She did?" Shaking his head, he pats the horse's nose and winks at me. "Sugar's a little skittish," he informs me.

"Oh, yeah?" I ask, shifting Annie in my arms as she squirms for her father's attention. "Well, she's been very well-behaved. Hasn't she?" I ask the young girl in my embrace.

Annie nods as Mark holds his arm out and pulls her to his chest. "Kiss her!" she exclaims, pointing to Sugar after he has pressed his lips to her cheek.

Without question, Mark turns to the horse and does just as his daughter has requested. And dammit if my heart doesn't leap in my chest.

Alright, what the hell is happening to me? Why did the purr of his truck engine make my tummy flutter a few minutes ago? Why did that wink he shot my way send a bolt of electricity down my back? And why the hell does his interaction with the girls make me want to melt into one of these puddles at my feet?

Why am I noticing the way his sweat suit hangs from his form, baggy enough to hide his body, but fitted enough to let you know that he's in great shape? Why the hell do I find myself smiling like an idiot at the way his lips curl when he listens to Maggie's story about the bed she made for the new bunny? Maybe it's PMS. That makes my body do strange things. Granted, it's nowhere near time for PMS, but let's just go with that, okay?

"You wanna go for a ride?" Mark asks, though I'm not sure who he's asking. Maggie and Annie clap their hands in response. Turning to me, he raises that eyebrow again. "What about you, Dahl? Wanna go for a ride?"

"I have never ridden a horse in my life," I admit with a laugh, and Maggie gasps. With wide eyes, I give her a look that says I can't believe it, either. "Crazy, right?"

Mark just shakes his head and puts the girls back on the ground. "Well, you can't be a part of this family and not know how to ride a horse, can ya, Maggie?" She shakes her head, her hand still covering her mouth in shock. "Give me five minutes to get saddled up."

What the hell just happened? One minute, I'm playing around the barn with the girls, frolicking like a child and enjoying my afternoon. The next minute, I'm staring blankly as Mark saddles two horses, preparing for an afternoon ride like we do it all the time. His face twists in determination as he moves around the animal with authority, grumbling reassuring phrases to the twitchy beast. The gentle way his hand runs over her shining coat makes me shiver involuntarily. Oh, this has got to stop.

"Alrighty," he announces, clearing his throat and turning back to us. Patting the brown horse on his left, he says, "Maggie, will you do me a favor, Princess?" She nods dutifully. "Ride up here on Serenity with Dahlia. Show her how it's done, okay?"

Maggie pouts her lips and shakes her head. "I wanna ride Sugar," she insists.

But Mark isn't going to budge. With his hands on his trim hips, he looks down at the girl and shakes his head. "Dahlia's never ridden a horse before, Princess. And she's gonna need an expert like you to help her out." Maggie's not convinced. "Tell ya what," he grunts as he lunges forward and hoists her into the air, depositing her on Serenity's back, "you help Dahlia with her first ride, then you and me will take Sugar down to the creek."

That idea strikes a chord and she clutches the saddle with both hands and shoots an inviting grin my way. "Come on, Dahlia. Let's go."

Mark takes Annie from my arms and sets her on a feed barrel at his side. Holding out a hand, he nods toward the horse. "I'll give ya a boost," he offers.

I slide my hand into his and he pats the side of my thigh. "Step up with this foot," he instructs. "Swing over with that one." I do as I'm told and, though it's not the most graceful move in the world, it works. Reaching around Maggie, I pray that she won't feel my heart pounding in my chest as she backs up to me and settles in for the ride.

He grabs Annie from her seat and hands her up to me before hopping onto his own animal. Of course he makes it looks graceful. He once told Maggie that he didn't know how to play ballerinas, but he moves with the ease of a dancer. I'm sure he doesn't realize it, but every motion is so fluid that it's hard to remember that he's in desparate need of surgery to replace his hip. It's hard to remember that he makes a living punching people and getting thrown around.

Leaning over, he takes Annie back into his arms and situates her on the saddle in front of him. "You hold on, Angel," he instructs, placing one large hand over hers, loosely holding Sugar's reigns as he gentley taps the horse's sides with his heels, leading the way out of the barn.

Though it takes me a few minutes to get into the groove, I'm soon riding with ease, allowing my body to bounce with the motion of the equestrian beneath me. Thankfully, Mark seems to have given us the more peaceful horse. I suppose that's why she's named Serenity now, isn't it? At any rate, she walks lazily around the field, raising her head each time Maggie tries to get her to move faster. Every time she hesitates, I can just imagine her rolling her huge, brown eyes, wondering why she had to be strapped with the insistent kid who keeps kicking her in the sides.

By the time we arrive back at the house, Maggie is rambling about the path that she wants to take to the creek, and I'm ready for a shower and a nap. Muddy, sore, and exhausted, I can't wait to slide down off of Serenity and run into the house. I can bathe Annie, and then myself, before Mark and Maggie get back. Then I can take care of Maggie while Mark unpacks and be out of their hair once again.

After setting Annie on the ground, Mark moves Maggie onto Sugar's back without incidence and then turns his attention to me. "You're gonna stand up and swing that leg over here," he instructs. "Just lower it to the ground like you were backin' down the stairs."

I stand on tired legs and swing my left around the back of the horse. Of course, not being used to the sensation, I find myself wobbling. I feel my balance swaying as I swing my leg over Serenity's backside, and all hope of a graceful dismount is lost when I feel my foot jerk free of the stirrup. Fortunately, the reflexes Mark exhibits in the ring are not camera tricks. With his firm hands on my hips, he cradles me tightly to his chest, his rumbling laughter vibrating against my arm.

"You okay?" he asks through his chuckle.

I nod as he eases my feet to the ground, my cheeks and neck flaming from the embarrassment of looking like such an uncoordinated lump. I so badly wanted to impress all three of them with my prowess as a cowgirl. I want to fit seamlessly into their world. I want them to accept me, to need me as much as I need them.

When Mark releases my body from his hold, I take a step and falter once more. My legs are stiff, and I feel like I'm still on the horse. Do I look like I'm squatting? I feel like I'm squatting, like my legs are permanently shoulder-width apart, and like I can't straighten my knees. Is that normal? Hearing Mark laugh only serves to further deepen my humiliation.

With his hand on the small of my back, he holds my arm gently and moves me out from between the horses. "You just gotta walk it off," he advises.

"Easy for you to say," I chuckle in spite of myself, allowing him to lead me in a large circle. "How the are you standing upright? You're the one with bad legs," I remind him.

He growls from somewhere deep in his chest. "Keep mockin' me, Dahl," he warns, letting go of my arm and watching me stumble again. "I'll letcha fall on yer face." When I glare at him, he wraps his arm around my waist to steady me once more.

Rolling my eyes, I jut my tongue between my lips and crinkle my nose in defiance. "You really are the big evil. Ya know that?"

As he feels my strength returning, he releases his hold and watches me for a moment, something flitting past his green orbs. It's so quick, so barely visible, that I think I might have imagined it. Was it respect? Admiration? Affection? What the hell was that?

I don't really have time to ponder it further as he turns his back and struts back to Sugar's side. Swinging onto her back behind his daughter, he pulls Maggie tightly to his chest. "You wanna make her run, Princess?"

Maggie claps her hands and kicks her heels against Sugar's sides. Mark waves toward the place where I stand with Annie on my hip and then snaps the reigns, leaving nothing but Maggie's shrieks of jubilation in their wake as they run in the direction of the road.

"Daddy," Annie waves weakly, her eyes watering as her father and sister disappear from sight. I kiss her head and start for the house, every possible emotion fighting for dominance in my head and my gut.


	10. Chapter 10

**Boys Don't Cry**

By the time I ease my car out of Mark's driveway and start home, it's almost nine o'clock. My original intention was to shower, bathe Annie, and make dinner. But showering there, knowing Mark was around, felt wrong. I don't know why. I'm not sure why I thought he might walk in and find me running across the hall in a towel, since I don't normally walk around in a towel anyway, but I haven't exactly been thinking clearly since earlier in the afternoon.

My clothes are still dirty. My hair feels like a sweaty rat's nest against my shoulders. I managed to wash my hands before making dinner, but my fingers are about the only thing on my body that is clean. I feel grimy down to my bones, and I can't wait to fill my garden tub with Freesia bubbles and soak for a good, long while.

And I have so much to think about. Mark, for one. More specifically, the fact that he seems to be in the forefront of my mind since arriving home from his trip. What the hell is that about? How come I can still feel his fingers on my back, even though he saved me from falling off my horse more than five hours ago? Why can I still see that smirk on his lips, and hear that amused chuckle in my ears?

Ya know what I think? I think that, at the risk of sounding really crude, it's been too damn long since I got laid. That's what I think. I mean, why the hell else would I be having any kind of flutter toward a man with whom I've only ever shared a business relationship. And I'm not even sure you could call what we've had any kind of relationship. I just haven't been with a man in awhile now. Jason and I weren't sleeping together before he left me, so I'm thinkin' that my body is just reacting to the first male touch in months. That has to be it.

Stripping out of my dirty clothes, I wrap my body in a terry cloth robe and gather my iPod for my bath. I'll listen to some jazz, get back in touch with myself, and everything will be back to normal. I'll be fine. I'm always fine. I always manage to kick my circumstances in the teeth. Why should this time be any different?

Turns out, relaxing is harder than you might think. For the first five minutes, the water is great, and I feel myself starting to unwind a little bit. A glass of wine helps me think a little bit less about the stress, and a brings a warm, tingling to my belly. It teases me into thinking that I might be okay after all.

And then my cell phone rings. I'm not one of those people that has a cutesy song for every number in it's memory. I just have a basic ring tone. Maybe I should differentiate, because I forget to check the caller ID, so his gravelly voice surprises me.

"Dahlia, it's Jason."

My heart sinks in my chest. Jason. My ex-husband. The man who has no business calling me for any reason. Everything that we had to do with each other is finished, as far as I'm concerned. We have said our final peace. Are there times that I would like to have him back? Yeah, there are. Are there times when I forget what a bastard he has turned out to be? Yeah, there are. But I think it was starting to get a little bit better. I barely thought about him at all today. And I was planning on thinking of him even less tomorrow.

"What do you want?" I ask, too tired to fight with him at the moment.

There is a soft chuckle from his end, and it reminds me of the way he used to call me from his business trips. The way he used to tell me how much he missed me, needed me, and wanted me. It reminds me of how it used to be. Before it was a nightmare. When it was still a dream come true.

And then he speaks. "Juliet was in an accident yesterday," he informs me. His precious whore was in an accident? Hold on. Give me a second while I dry my tears. "Don't worry," he goes on, as though I was about to grieve for him, "both she and the baby are fine, but the car is totalled beyond repair."

"Baby?" I ask dumbly. I'm fairly certain that I didn't know there was a baby. Because I haven't freaked out or cried about the baby, and had I known it existed, I would have. "There's a baby?"

The clearing of his throat on the other end of the phone confirms my deepest fears. He's shifting right now, moving his weight from one foot to the other as he realizes that he's caught in another web. He's hidden something from me, and he knows that he brought it to light accidentally. He's a master manipulator. Unfortunately, he's got the world's loosest lips, and the worst memory. "There is a baby, Dahlia," he answers slowly.

I don't want to know anything else about it. I don't want to hear his voice anymore. But I ask anyway, because I know that the questions will eat at me if I don't. "Since when?"

"Uh," Jason stammers. He's trying to figure out when we separated. Trying to save his ass yet again. And then he sighs, as though giving up the charade. "Since August."

August. It's March. Our divorce was final in October. He left me in October. And now I know why. "What do you want from me, Jason?" I ask, refusing to cry. His twenty-five-year-old girlfriend is pregnant. She's having his baby. The baby that he didn't want to have with me.

"I need the car back," he says, not a stitch of regret or remorse in his tone. There's not a hint of "I'm sorry I broke your heart and took everything, including your happily-ever-after." Nothing.

I would stand up, or throw the phone, but my entire body has gone numb. After everything that he has put me through, every goddamned tear that I have cried for him, he has the audacity to call me and tell me he wants my car for his pregnant girlfriend? "I'm sorry?"

There's a huff from his end, as though I'm the one being difficult. As though he doesn't appreciate my response. As though he's not an enormous asshole. "Car's in my name, Dahlia. I know that things moved pretty quickly back when we split, and it was kinda surprising for you," he starts.

"Do not," I interrupt him, the anger coursing through me more than I can control, "think for one fucking second that you have done me any favors, Jason. If you're gonna try to make yourself feel better, I can't stop you, but I'm not gonna listen to it. I'm not gonna sit here and listen to you act like you're the one who's been the bigger man here," I tell him, standing from the tub. There will be no relaxing. Not after this conversation.

If there's one thing I know about Jason, though, it's that he loves a challenge. He loves to fight. Especially with me. "You can't possibly tell me that I haven't been good to you, Dahlia. You can't say that I haven't done everything in my power to make sure that you're comfortable. I didn't have to give you the house. I didn't have to give you as much support as I have been. I mean, I have a baby coming. That money could be going toward his college fund."

And the anger dies as quickly as it flares. He's right. As much as I hate to admit it, he's right. Drying my body quickly, I wrap the towel back around my body and stare at my reflection in the mirror. Who is that woman staring back at me? The one with the empty eyes and the broken expression? Is that me? Is that what I've become?

I want to believe that I didn't choose this life. I want to believe that he has forced me into this vacant persona, this shell of the woman I once was. But he hasn't, has he? I've let him do it. Just as I have for as long as I've known him, I've allowed him to define who I am. I've allowed him to dictate how I feel. And I've allowed him to determine where I'm going. I have surrendered total control of my life to a man who wasn't interested in sticking around to enjoy his creation. I was on the Dean's List when he met me. But I sure as hell don't feel very smart anymore.

"Ya know what, Jason?" I shake my head and tear my eyes away from the mirror, walking slowly toward my bedroom. I'm not going to fight with him. Not tonight. Not ever again. "You can have the car. You can have the house. You can have all of your support. You can have everything that you've given me." He sighs, as though I'm being melodramatic. "No, you can," I assure him. "I don't want you to send me another check. I don't. I'm moving out of the house, and I'll leave the keys to the car on the entry table. You can do whatever you want with all of it."

I move to the mirror in my bedroom and study the woman once again. Tilting my head, I think of the girls, and I smile. I think of the life that I have been living since he's been gone, and the grin broadens. I don't need him. I can live without his memory to keep me warm at night. I can live without the guilt of how I might have driven him away. Who I am is not directly tied to him, our marriage, or how it all ended. My life is better without him than it could have ever been with him, and it's time I stop moping and realize that.

"We're comin' to get the car tonight. Just leave the keys in it and we won't bother you. Let me know when you're out of the house." He hangs up the phone before I can respond.

I wasn't really expecting him to insist on continuing to pay me. I wasn't expecting him to say anything in particular, but the cold way in which he ends the call sparks something in my gut, as though I've finally cut him free for the last time. I feel like a new woman. Liberated in finally being able to stand up for myself. I feel like I can take on the world, and that I might stand a fighting chance of winning. I feel like I can do anything.

And then another realization settles over me. I basically gave him my most important material possessions. I am now homeless, and without a paying job. What was that I was just saying about not feeling very smart? Acting without thinking may just be highly overrated.

I've heard stories about mothers who find uncanny strength in the face of danger. I've always admired athletes who can play through agonizing pain, pressing toward their goal as though they're not suffering unimaginable agony. Soldiers can block out gun shot wounds and shrapnel to drag themselves out of the path of their enemies. And I've always wondered if I would be able to show similar strength in a traumatic situation.

I know that it's not as extreme as those examples. But it feels like my own personal tragedy. And I know that I have to do something about it. I got myself into this mess, and I truly believe that it is the best possible decision I could have made. Now I just have to fight through the doubts clouding my mind.


	11. Chapter 11

**Boys Don't Cry**

**A/N: I'm not big on the double updating anymore, but this is the last chapter I have completed at this point, and I'm heading out of town tomorrow and I'm not sure when I'll get a chance to post again. Hopefully, my connection won't be down for long, but I just don't know. So until then, this chapter will have to hold y'all over. I hope that it's enough for you. Enjoy!

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Though he said that he was on his way over, Jason didn't pick the car up last night. This morning, I was tempted to drive it around until the gage read "E" and then wait happily on the porch for him to come get it. Of course, it would have been a childish move, but it did make me smile for a little while.

Instead of bothering with the car, I spent most of the morning sorting through my belongings. I really didn't need to take a lot of things. My books, movies, and music. My clothes. Other than that, I really don't have much. It's actually kind of depressing that I can pack everything that I want to carry from this life in only three hours. But maybe it's better that way. Maybe starting from scratch is what I need to do.

I've just taped the last box when a knock sounds at the door. Dammit, Jason. The keys are in the car. I really wish that he didn't feel the need to see me. To rub it in my face, no doubt. To smirk one last time. To pat himself on the back for one last "fuck you."

Shaking my head, I shovel my wet hair from my face and step over a couple of boxes. I know that I made the right decision. It doesn't mean that this will be an easy confrontation. No matter how determined I am, no matter how many pep talks I give myself, I know that my first glimpse of him in months is going to send my heart rate a little higher than normal. We were together for almost fifteen years. How can it not affect me in some way?

When I throw the front door open, my heart catches in my throat. Maggie's face is pressed against the screen. Mark stands behind her, Annie on his hip, looking slightly uncomfortable. It's as though he's not sure he'll be welcome here. Honestly, I can't blame him for that feeling. I've never given him any indication to believe that he would be.

"Dahlia!" Maggie screeches, as I open the door and step onto the porch. Hoisting her into my arms, I feel my heart jump when she wraps her arms around my neck. God, it's good to know that somebody loves me right now. "We're gonna go get ice cream in the park," she tells me with overwhelming enthusiasm.

Mark grunts and shifts as Annie wiggles in his arms. He tightens his grip and moves her from his right hip to his left. Nudging Maggie's shoulder with his fingers, he waits until his daughter leans her head back and looks up. "You gonna ask her?"

Rolling her eyes, Maggie turns her attention back to me, her fingers tangled in my shower-moistened hair. "He's so impatient," she sighs dramatically. I let a giggle escape, but suck my lips in to stifle the sound, nodding my head for effect. "Daddy says he'll buy you some, too."

Meeting Mark's eye, I smile when he blushes. It's not terribly noticeable, just the faintest hint of pink creeping up from his collar, inching toward his jaw. I'm not sure he even knows that he's doing it, and I'm sure it's not conscious. But it's, quite possibly, the most adorable thing I've ever seen. "Well, I suppose I could go for a scoop of Rocky Road," I return my attention to Maggie.

"Ew," she scrunches up her nose and puts her hand over my face. "That's gross, Dahlia." I feign hurt, and she rolls her eyes again. "Rocky Road gots nuts in it."

Resting my forehead against hers, I mimick her expression. "Maybe it's my favorite. You ever think about that?" I ask, my head snapping up when I hear an engine in the driveway.

Of course he would show up now. Of course, when I'm in the middle of a peaceful moment of tranquility. Of course he would inject himself into the good moments, souring the one note of joy left in my life.

"Who's that?" Maggie asks, tightening her hold on my neck.

I turn back to Mark with an apologetic smirk. "Give me just a second and I'll be ready to go," I assure him.

"You need back up?" Mark asks, his voice low and even. I notice that his eyes are trained on Jason, dressed in his khaki pants and his polo shirt. Oh, if looks could kill. I wish they could. No, I don't. I just wish that they could bruise. Or castrate. Is that too much to ask?

Stepping off the porch, I meet him beside the car. "Keys are in it," I say, tucking my hands into the back pockets of my shorts.

He nods, his eyes trained on the porch. I can already see the condescention clouding his gray eyes. "New boyfriend?" he asks.

I can almost hear the smirk in his tone. I know that he can't imagine I would find anyone so blue collar attractive, especially with Mark's heavily tattooed arms on full display. It's so tempting to let him think that I have. To see the look on his face when I tell him that those rough hands are so much more satisfying than his manicured ones ever could have been. It's so tempting to imagine the look on his face when I tell him that Mark has more masculinity in his little finger than Jason could ever hope to display.

But I can't lie to him. Especially at the expense of that man on my porch. He doesn't need to be drawn into this situation. "Just take the car, Jason," I instruct, refusing to look up when the passenger's side of his car opens. I will not look at her. I will not acknowledge her. I can't.

Yanking the door open, he turns. "You wanna drive your new car, baby girl?" he asks over his shoulder.

I think I'm going to vomit. I can feel my stomach churning as her heels click against the asphalt. I can see her pedicured toes as I study the ground, looking a bit like Maggie does when I'm punishing her. But I'm not being punished. I haven't done anything wrong here.

"You don't know how much this is helping us, Dahlia."

When she says my name, I can't help meeting her sparkling blue eyes. I know that her blonde hair isn't real, and there's a good chance her breasts aren't either. I wonder how long Jason will hold on to her, how long she'll be suitable as his trophy. I wonder if she knows that he'll probably dump her on her ass eventually. "Yeah," I nod, turning on my heel.

I've been telling myself that it's over for months, that there is no going back. I've been telling myself that I don't want him back, and that I'm better off without him. But now I know it. One hundred percent, without any doubts, I know that my marriage is over. Jason and I are not getting back together, not because he's knocked up some other chick. Because I don't want him back.

They are pulling out of the driveway when I step back onto the porch. "So that's Jason, huh?" Mark asks with an unimpressed snort.

Lifting Maggie back into my arms, I shoot him a look of surprise. "How'd you know?" I ask.

"Kara said he was a polished, pretty boy," he grins at the memory of his wife's words. "Also said he was tryin' to replace a brilliant, beautiful woman with a bimbo-lookin' Barbie doll," he winks, leading the way off the porch.

It was cute when he blushed a minute ago. When I do it, I'm sure it's not as cute. I can feel the heat in my cheeks as I follow him, opening the back of the extended cab to secure Maggie in her car seat. I'm well aware that he didn't say I was beautiful, but just hearing the word roll from his lips makes me feel better than I have since talking to Jason last night.

-----

Here's the thing about my relationship with Mark, if you can call it that: I like him. Not as a wrestler, or the phantom husband of my friend, or even the commanding presence that he is. I like him as a person.

I like his dry sense of humor, and the way he thinks before he speaks. I like the way he just expects that people will work hard for their money, and the way he refuses to make excuses for not getting something done. I like the way he watches his girls, the way he's not ashamed to show them affection and assure them that he loves them. I like the way he's starting to open up about Kara, the way his lips twitch when he remembers something that he hasn't allowed himself to remember in the past.

I like just sitting with him, watching the girls play in the sandbox at the park. Even though we say nothing, I like knowing that he's there.

"Can I ask ya somethin'?" Mark questions after nearly ten minutes of complete silence. I just nod, afraid to shatter the silence myself. "What was that deal with your ex this mornin'?"

Part of me wants to tell him that it's none of his business. I don't ask him to offer personal information about Kara. Anything that he's told me has been solely of his own volition. Why should I be expected to open up about Jason at his request?

Because he doesn't expect it. Because he's making conversation. And because I actually want to talk about it. I want to share my feelings with someone. And he's the only one I have now. He's the only listening ear that I have, and I want him to hear what I have to say.

"He took my car," I start and then shake my head with a chuckle. "His car. The car was in his name," I clarify. "He left it behind when we separated because he didn't need it. But now that he does, he's taking it back." For some reason, saying it out loud makes it incredibly funny. My laughter bubbles out of nowhere, and I can't stop it.

Mark raises an eyebrow and turns his head, but says nothing. What can he say? I'm sitting beside him, chortling like a lunatic about the fact that my husband has, in effect, stolen my car. If he doesn't think I'm on drugs, I'd be surprised.

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I sniffle against the tears building in the corners of my eyes. "Oh, God," I gasp for much-needed air, reaching out to touch his arm. "I'm sorry," I whisper, another chuckle ripping through me. "It's just," shaking my head, I try my best to collect myself, "this shit happens in Lifetime movies. The asshole ex-husband gets his business associate pregnant and leaves his wife in made-for-TV movies. He ruins her self-esteem and everything she expected her life to be, and then he takes her car, and her house, and her support checks."

Turning toward me, Mark drapes his arm across the back of the bench. "He took your house? And your support checks?" He is not a man easily affected, but the tone in his voice is nothing short of disbelief.

I touch his leg in reassurance. "No. That part was all me," I admit, knowing that he's going to explode. Why wouldn't he? He's the man who appreciates hard work and rational thinking. There is no way he's going to understand why I would willingly destroy everything that I have in the world. "I didn't want anything from him anymore," I defend weakly.

Nodding, Mark clears his throat and shifts his left leg over his right thigh, as though reminding me that I'm touching him. When I retract my touch, he runs his fingers absently over his goatee. "I get that," he nods easily.

"You do?" I don't mean to fall off the bench or anything, but it's a little out of character. I think I have a right to be a little surprised.

The good-natured smirk that he throws my way reaches all the way to his emerald orbs. "Yes," he answers in an exaggerated tone. When I smile, he laughs. It's not a full, belly laugh, but it's enough to let me know that he's not going to scold me. "In fact, I think ya did the right thing, Dahl."

Again, I wanted to check his forehead for signs of a temperature. Was he feeling okay? Who was this man and what had he done with the guy I had grown accumstomed to? Clearing my throat, I want to question him again. But he's already answered the question once, and I'm pretty sure he wouldn't appreciate it again. Of course, I didn't think he would get it the first time, either.

"And it's not like you don't have anywhere to go," Mark added when I didn't respond. "You got a room at the house. You're there mosta the time anyway. The girls miss ya when yer not around. They'll be happy to know that yer movin' in," he nods, as though there is no reason to discuss it further. It makes sense in his mind and he's not going to let me decline his offer.

I watch Annie helping Maggie with her sand castle, and I can't help the smile that stretches over my lips. They're not my girls. They'll never really be mine, but I love them. I love them so much that it hurts to think about what I would be without them. Even when I'm supposed to be enjoying time away from them, when I have my days off, I can't help but longing to be with them. They are my family now. They are all that I have.

"You can use the truck when I'm on the road," Mark goes on, his deep timber shocking me slightly. "And you don't have to worry about the support thing, either," he goes on. "I'll pay ya what I was gonna pay ya to begin with."

Turning my body toward him, I tilt my head to the side and ask, "Why?" before I can stop myself. He is the gift horse and I'm looking him straight in the mouth. But I need to know why he's doing this for me. He doesn't have to, and I need to know that he's aware of that.

Again, Mark chuckles and runs his hand over his beard. "You 'member my wife, right?" I nod. "After all you've done for the girls, Kara'd kick my ass if I didn't do this for you," he shakes his head, blinking his eyes to stop the tears that have sprung on him without warning. "Prob'ly be a chase 'round the yard. Baseball bat involved somehow, I'm sure."

He is a good man, Mark Calaway is. He was a great husband, he's turning into a great father, and I'm finding him a fantastic friend, as well. Maybe I really am going to be okay. Now it's time to turn my attention toward making sure he's okay, as well.


	12. Chapter 12

**Boys Don't Cry**

**A/N: Okay, so it's been a minute since I updated. It's taken me some time to get settled in to my new place and to get my writing vibe back. But I think I'm good to go now, so maybe you won't have to wait another week for the next update. Enjoy!

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The journey from Houston to Detroit was uneventful, thankfully. Though I love taking the girls to visit Mark on the road, this weekend is bound to be a stressful experience. Wrestlemania is his biggest event, the company's premier circus, and the hotel was swarming with media representatives and rabid fans when we arrived.

Maggie begged, pleaded, and whined that she NEEDED to go swimming, but the pool was crowded, and I've seen what some of these fans say online. I'm not about to subject Mark's children to The Undertaker's fans. Most of them love him, but there are a few who are not so fond, and I can clearly see, in my mind's eye, Maggie deciding to pick a fight with a twenty-something internet web master who thinks that her father should just hang it up and let the younger guys take over.

By the time Mark gets back to the hotel after his meetings, both girls are knocked out on their bed, and I am reading a magazine article on his "amazing" winning streak at 'Mania. I don't know if anyone realizes this, but it is not so amazing if the outcome is predetermined. At least, not to me. Of course, I don't know shit about this business, so I guess my opinion doesn't mean much anyway.

"Hey, Dahl," he greets in a hushed whisper, as if afraid of waking the girls.

I return the gesture, dropping the magazine to the bedside table and grabbing a dollar bill. "Thank goodness you're back," I heave a sigh, jumping up from the bed and smoothing my tank top down over my waistband. "I have been dying of thirst for the last hour!"

He chuckles and drops his bag to the floor, his eyes drifting to the sleeping beauties on the bed. "You could have gone down the hall, ya know?"

I just shrug and pat his shoulder as I walk past. "If Annie wakes up in a strange place, she freaks," I explain, smiling softly as I remember that there are still some things about his own kids that he just doesn't know.

"Dahl?" I turn at the door to see him sinking to the mattress. "Can I ask you a question?" His brow is knitted, his green eyes clouded with a world of concern. When I nod, he licks his lips nervously, and I wonder if he's going to propose. Well, not really, but that's the only question I can imagine making a man so nervous. "Can you take the girls to dinner a little bit early tonight?"

Narrowing my eyes, I lean against the wall and cross my arms over my chest. "What's wrong, Mark?"

He just shakes his head again, a deep, crimson blush creeping up his neck and into his cheeks. "Nah, nothin's wrong. I just," he stammers and then clears his throat. "Glen's wife brought her sister along for the weekend. I met her a couple times before. She's a sweet girl." Again, he licks his lips, as though they are drying out with each word. "She wants to go to the Hall of Fame thing tonight, but she didn't have a ticket."

He trails off, staring at the bed, and I wonder if I'm going to have to force him to say the words. Biting my lip, I watch as his eyebrows knit together, his lips twisted. It appears that he has been kicked in the gut - the expression on his features downright painful. "You want permission to go on a date?" I ask softly.

As quickly as his face twisted, it drops. He chuckles slightly and rests his head against the wall behind him, a deep sigh rushing through his nose as his shoulders relax. "It's not even a date," he blushes again. "I'm just helpin' out a friend."

"But you feel guilty anyway," I deduce, taking a step toward the bed and resting my hand on his sock-covered foot. "Ya know what I think?" His eyes are hopeful as they bore into me, searching me for an answer, some sort of wisdom or insight into his situation. Oh, if only he knew how little wisdom I actually have. "I think that, if Kara were here right now, she would invite this chick to go along with y'all. And I think that she would have a few words for you just for hemmin' and hawin' around about it." He chuckles and I know that he agrees.

Rising from the bed, he nods and moves to walk me to the door. "Thanks, Dahlia." When I step into the hallway, he clears his throat again. "Can you pick the girls up around 5:30? I wanna make sure they're gone before everybody gets here."

There it is again. The bleeding pink from the collar of his shirt, over his neck, and into his cheeks. In this moment, I can't help but wonder if he's more nervous about this date, that really isn't a date, or about the girls finding out about it. And the way that he tosses his gaze over his shoulder once again answers the question immediately.

With a soft hand on his cheek, I smile and hope to God he can see the compassion radiating from them. "I will be here at 5:15," I promise, leaving him alone with his children for a few hours.

As I move down the hall, toward the vending machine, I can't help but think of a conversation I had with Maggie just two nights earlier. I was tucking her into bed, promising her big fun in Detroit, and assuring her that it wasn't going to be another one of Daddy's 'boring old wrestling shows.' Her little hand had been like satin on my arm as she peered at me with those big, watery eyes. Her voice had been so timid when she told me that she missed her mommy really badly that day, and that sometimes she wished God would give her another mommy.

And then she had blushed and told me that sometimes she pretended I was her mommy. And that, if her Daddy ever tried to bring anyone else home for them, she promised she wouldn't like them. I, of course, told her that Daddy wouldn't bring anyone home for a very long time, and that it was fine for her to like that person, whoever she was, when the time came. But she had insisted that I was the only new mommy she wanted, and I had kissed her forehead and vowed that I wasn't going anywhere, before rushing off to my own room to cry like a baby.

I was going to take a nap when I get back to my room, but I can't risk oversleeping. I have to get back to that room before another woman shows up to wisk Maggie's dad away, and before she unleashes holy hell on everyone in her path.

---

As a trophy wife, events and parties had been my life. Whether Jason was in town, or out on business, I was still expected to represent the family with grace, poise, and dignity. There was a time when I had an entire closet full of formal gowns, and another for semi-formals and cocktail dresses. At one time, I owned over 300 pairs of designer shoes, and nearly a million dollars in jewelry. I was the classic, textbook definition of a desperate housewife, but there were days when I didn't hate it. And there are still some days when I miss it even now.

Today is one of those days. Bustling about the room, trying to dress Annie for dinner, while Mark puts the finishing touches on his formal look, I can't help but feel a little bit jealous of this friend who will be on his arm. Not because I want to be Mark's date, but because I would love to be dressed up again, feeling like a princess on the arm of a man that is loved and adored in his world.

I catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye and can't help the breath that hitches in my throat. The suit is Armani and charcoal gray. It almost surprises me, he seems more like the kind of guy who would wear black. Of course, the only other time I've seen him in a suit, he was burying his wife, so black was the standard.

He has added a deep purple tie over his white dress shirt, and I have to say that the scent of his cologne filling the room is nothing short of intoxicating. He looks, at the risk of sounding really corny, absolutely delicious. The suit fits him perfectly, hanging where it should, and hugging as it was meant to. The only dilemma seems to be those flowing, black locks that he's tied into a ponytail and let loose at least fifteen times since I got here.

"Leave it alone, Mark," I hiss through gritted teeth as Annie insists on flailing her leg while I try to tie her shoe. His left eyebrow shoots up to his hairline at the curt tone I'm taking with him. "It's just gonna be a frizzy mess if you don't stop running your fingers through it." He's lived over forty years with curly hair. How has he not figured that brushing it is only going to make it look bushy by now? Ugh. Men.

Maggie has insisted on wearing her Disney Princesses dress to dinner, and though I know she's going look a little out of place, I really don't care what she wears. At least one of us will get to look like a princess tonight. "Alright, Maggie, go use the bathroom before we go," I point toward the bathroom when I've finally secured Annie's shoes.

Turning toward Mark, I groan to find him brushing his hair again. "Jesus Christ, Mark," I gasp, taking the brush from his hand and pointing to the bed. "Sit." He does as he's told, for the first time looking as though he might be scared not to. I kneel behind him on the bed, gathering the top half of his hair into a ponytail and then casting my eyes at Annie. "Can you hand me that?" I motion to a bottle of spring water on the bedside table.

With a wide grin, the youngest Calaway does as requested, crawling toward me with the bottle. When I pour a tiny bit into my hands and then work them through Mark's hair, she giggles and claps. When I do it again, she squeals, so I dribble a little in her hands, her delighted laughter breaking the tension in the room.

"You like playin' in the water, don'tcha, Angel?" Mark laughs, grabbing Annie into his arms while I tie his black bandana around his head. He's tickling her, and laughing at her howls of amusement, when I finish my work and point to the mirror over his shoulder. Meeting my eye, he winks. "Thanks, Dahl. 'Preciate it."

He looks damn good as he stands, lifting Annie onto his hip. And when Maggie comes out of the bathroom, he grabs her, too. Dammit if my tummy doesn't do that flutter thing again, just seeing them all together. A quick check of my watch reminds me that I need to get the girls out the door as soon as possible.

"Alright, it's dinner time, munchkins." They both kiss their daddy on the cheek and then wiggle onto the floor, grabbing my hands and pulling me toward the door. "Have fun, Mark," I smile sweetly and he nods, his face saying he's not so sure it's possible. "It'll be great," I promise him, knowing that it will be.

He's just helping out a friend. It's not a big deal. He already said he had no romantic feelings for the woman. And if it weren't for the fact that I miss getting all dressed up and spending an actual evening with adults, I probably wouldn't be feeling this twinge of jealousy either. Yep, it's gonna be a great fucking night. For all of us.


	13. Chapter 13

**Boys Don't Cry**

Here's the thing about Wrestlemania weekend: If you're a fan, the excitement is electrifying. Everything about the festivities sets your body on fire, and you can't help but scream until your vocal chords are raw. If you're not a fan, and you're forced to be there anyway? It's the longest, most exhausting, weekend ever.

Though the show ended before eleven, the girls were dead to the world as soon as their father's match was over. I watched the rest of the show, but knew that it would be hours before Mark got home. Normally, I try to stay up and wait for him. Tonight, as the hours tick by, my eyes begin to drift heavily, as though weighted.

I'm hanging in the balance between sleep and awake when I hear the door click softly. The girls rest on either side of me, glowing like angels in the dim lighting from the bedside lamp. The painstaking rate at which Mark opens, and then closes the door, gives me enough time to open my eyes and adjust to the light. "Hey," I smile softly, working the heel of my hand over my blurred eyes as he comes into focus.

Dropping his duffle bag at the foot of the bed, he looks to the girls, as though to ensure he didn't wake them. When his eyes find me, he shakes his head and holds out a hand. "Go back to sleep," he orders, stepping past the beds to open the sliding glass door to the balcony.

For a guy who just won the World Heavyweight Title, he seems a little sullen. For a guy who was so jazzed to take the stage for his fifteenth straight win only hours earlier, he's downright depressed. Slowly easing my arms from under the girls, I make my way to the mini-bar and take our customary bottles of whiskey onto the balcony. Leaning next to him, I nudge him with my shoulder and offer one of the bottles. "Toast to your victory?" I ask with the brightest smile I can muster.

But he just gnaws at his bottom lip, stopping to consider me as he twists the cap off the bottle and tilts it to his lips. "Already had too many of these at the party," he grunts, swallowing hard and wiping his lips with the arm of his hooded sweatshirt.

Turning my body, I lean against the railing and slowly sip from my own bottle, bare elbows resting against the cool metal holding me in place. There are a million questions I want to ask him, and as many anecdotes I want to tell him about how Maggie had come alive while watching his match. He would appreciate them, wouldn't he? Usually, I would think so, but his demeanor is strange. Unsettled. Sad on the verge of angry.

When he lets out a weary sigh and makes his way to the lounger, I can't help but close my eyes. I don't want to stare. I don't want him to think I'm staring. Since I moved into his house a few weeks ago, he hasn't been home much, but we've spoken on the phone. Sometimes about the girls. A few times about Jason and Kara. Mostly about his career, or something that needs to be fixed around the house. Our friendship is still new, but it's building. Still, I'm not sure what he expects from his friends when he's in a mood like the one he seems to be in now.

He pinches the bridge of his nose and stares at the bottle in his hand, turning it between his fingers numbly. His gaze is vacant, as though his mind is a million miles away. My first instinct is just to go to him, to wrap my arms around him and assure him that everything will be okay. But, more than ever, I'm certain that would be the wrong thing to do.

Shaking my head, I push off the balcony and start toward the other lounger. When I reach his side, I stop and give him a smirk. "You gonna start talkin'?" I ask sarcastically before nodding to his legs, "Or am I gonna have to sit in your lap?"

His head barely tilts, but I can see the cringe in his shoulders at the words that I've spoken. Without so much as a whisper, I know the problem and inwardly chide myself for not thinking of it sooner. Of course, it's Kara. Why hadn't I thought of that sooner? "Even Valentine's Day without her didn't seem as bad as tonight does," he finally speaks into the stillness of the night.

With a soft thud, I drop into my seat and nibble softly on my bottom lip. There's nothing to say. I'm stupid. Insensitive and stupid. Of course, I thought he would be out partying the night away. Tipping my bottle again, I remind myself that I should have known he would have a hard time coming home. He's probably been wandering around for hours, just avoiding coming back to a hotel room without his wife on one of the proudest nights of his career.

"She was behind the curtain for three of my title wins," he explains without any further prodding. Chugging the rest of his whiskey in one, hard gulp, he drops it lightly to the balcony floor and then crosses his arms over his chest. He never turns to look at me, and I'm not quite sure if his words are intended for my ears, or for his angel in the stratosphere. "Last one?" He chuckles softly. "She barely let me step through before she was knockin' my ass against a wall. Damn near sucked my face off in fronta everybody." Shaking his head, he pinches the bridge of his nose. "Sometimes I think that belt meant more to her than it ever did to me."

I think he's right. In fact, in the short time that I knew Kara, the only constant interest in her life was Mark. The kids, of course, were part of the package, but this man at my side was her world. It was obvious in every last thing that she did. "She loved to see you on the top of your game," I assure him. "The fans cheering. Your hand raised in victory. Nothin' she loved more than that."

There is something about the darkness of the early morning hours that wraps itself around you like a blanket. Something comforting, as though any secrets shared will be tightly held in the moonlight's grasp. It is my favorite time to speak with Mark, because the quiet allows me to hear the rumbling timber of his low voice, and because he always seems more open after midnight.

"She should be here for this," he says suddenly, his voice cracking just barely. He clears his throat and turns his head, his emerald gaze piercing me with an unexpected intensity. "Called her the minute they told me it was prob'ly gonna happen. All she said was it was bout damn time. Couldn't wait to see it." He sniffles softly, his eyes blinking rapidly as he fights tears. "She said she would be here."

His voice tinges with a hint of anger, maybe a touch of resentment, and I'm not sure how to react. When Maggie cries for her mommy, I can hold her and rock her and assure her that it'll be okay. I can't do that with Mark. He's never cracked. Sure, we've relayed cute little stories about the Kara we both remember, about the friend that we have in common. But he has yet to open up about his wife, his lover, his soul mate. And I don't know how to comfort him. Or if I should even try.

A thought rushes over me and I can't help giggling a little bit. "I bet she's a little pissed herself," I tell him.

"That she's not here," I clarify when his brows knit together in confusion. "She always used to call me after you'd won a pay per view, and bitch about how she hadn't been there." Reaching out a hand, I shake my head. "She was giddy that you'd won, but mad as a hornet that she hadn't been there with you when it was over." I take a final drink and rest my bottle at my side. AI think she loved your career as much as you do."

He only huffs in response. "She had this list of shit she wanted to do before she," he stops himself from saying the word we both know, "went." Cuffing his cheek with the back of his hand, he sniffles hard, almost a snort, and rests his head against the back of the back of his chair. "Walk down the stairs by herself. Make it out the barn to pet Sugar and Serenity. Cook Thanksgiving dinner." He rolls his eyes. "In January. Put her wedding dress on again." He stops and licks his lips, pulling the bottom one between his teeth as he shakes his head. "Teach Maggie to braid her Barbie doll's hair. Get Annie potty-trained." The words seem harder to come by as the tasks become more personal. "Make love one more time." He nods over his shoulder. "Wear that belt again." I can hear his voice catch in his throat once more as he turns to see the gold on the dresser beyond the glass window. "Only thing she didn't do.

Sighing, I look over at him, trying to sniffle back my own tears. "Mark, you know she would be here," I start and then stop again. I'm not sure anything I can possibly say will help in this moment. Or if I should say anything at all. "It wouldn't surprise me if she used her last breath to beg for a little more time, just so she could see it." By the time I manage to choke it out, tears are pooling in my eyes, just as they are shimmering in his. Dammit, we are a couple of blubbering messes.

He just shakes his head, biting hard on his lower lip as he looks at his hands and then back at the sky. "I have been fightin' like hell. Puttin' on this face. Pretendin' like I understand what the fuck is goin' on. I mean, she was in so much pain. The last time we made love, I told her no. I didn't wanna do it. Just sittin' in our bed hurt her, just trying to sit up. I didn't wanna put her through any more than that. Any unneccessary strain." Tears slip down his cheeks before he even tries to stop them. Maybe he doesn't want to anymore. Maybe he's held it in for too long.

For a moment, I think he's finished, that he's shared all he's going to for the night. But, as I'm about to speak, he takes another deep breath and runs his fingers over his beard. "She said she wasn't passin' on without feelin' me inside her one last time. Got this look, this real peaceful look, on her face . . . Beautiful." Tears are flowing over his cheeks when he balls his fist and brings it down hard against the arm of the chair. "Dammit! I have to get over this bull shit. She was too sick. She had to go. It ain't right to keep hangin' on like this."

His outburst shocks me at first, and I can't help jumping a little in my seat. My first instinct is to tell him there's no right or wrong time to let go, that he has to feel it out and let his emotions run their course. But the overwhelming reaction in my brain is to stand and slowly make my way to him. Leaning over the back of his chair, I wrap my arms around my friend's shoulders, my tears making their way to his neck as I steady my breath and pray that I can find strength for both of us.

Mark doesn't want strength, though. At least, not from someone else. He shakes me off and stands, his head moving from side to side as he rakes his fingers through the dirty, stringy locks. "Why can't I just wrap my little brain around the fact that she wasn't gonna get better? I feel like I shouldn't wish she was there. Like I should be happy she's not sick anymore. But I'm not." He rests his hands on his hips and stares down at me, his eyes pleading for an honest answer. "What kind of husband wishes that his wife would be at home, even full of cancer, just so she can see him win a fucking title? One she's already seen him win three times?'

Resting against the window, I cuff my own tears with the backs of my wrists. This isn't an easy conversation. But all I can offer is exactly what he asks for. Honesty. "The kind of husband who misses the woman he was madly in love with." Clearing my throat, I try to regain my composure. "It's not about the title. Or the cancer. It's about the woman that meant everything to you not being here, not sharing your life with you anymore. You wanna give her the one thing that you knew she wanted. It's unselfish, and there's nothing wrong with it."

But he only shrugs his shoulders and considers me like a confused puppy. A sarcastic grin breaks his lips. "I'm a lotta things, Dahl, but unselfish ain't never been one of 'em." He runs his open palm over his face as that all-too-familiar blush creeps back into his cheeks again. "I miss comin' back to the hotel, knowin' I'ma get a victory fuck . . . Her hair always smelled like fruit. And she loved to stab me in the eye in her sleep. Don't think she meant to," he shrugs, and I know what he means. She very well could have meant to. "But she always managed to jab her fingernail into my face when she slept. Miss the way she'd wake me up in the middle of the night by whispering dirty, I mean filthy, things In my ear."

Another round of tears spring to his eyes, in turn causing more from me, as well. I can't help it. Something about watching this man, my very large friend, blubbering about his love for an amazing woman, is wrenching my heart. I want to do something. And there's not a damn thing I can do.

"I miss holding my wife," he whimpers, sinking to the ground and leaning hard against the railing, staring at his arms. "It literally fuckin' hurts, Dahlia." Resting his elbows on his upturned knees, he holds his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking from the sobs that are wracking his frame.

I don't know what to do. I feel like I've said that a thousand times, but I just don't know. Crawling to him on my hands and knees, I rest my back against the railing, my shoulders touching his. "What can I say to make you feel better?" He doesn't answer, but also doesn't pull away when I rest my hand on his knee. The only words of comfort that I can think of are her words. "The night before she died, you were down in the barn with the horses, and she told me that she was scared for you. She knew she was your soulmate, and she didn't want to leave you. Felt guilty for leaving you alone. For knowing that you would miss her, ache for her, and she wouldn't be able to hold you and comfort you." Pulling my hand back, I snort slightly, raking my fingers through my straight locks as I roll my eyes and stare into the hotel room, at the sleeping beauties on the bed. "Trust me," I say sarcastically, "I've heard enough about you to know you gave her everything she needed. Probably more than I should know, but you know Kara. Never hold anything back, 'specially from her friends."

I'm not sure what breaks the tension, but his tears stop as he raises red-rimmed eyes to stare at me through tear-soaked lashes. "Can I ask a favor from ya, Dahl?" I nod. I would give him anything he asked for in that moment. Anything. "Tell me what she said. About me." When I bite my lip, he shakes his head and fidgets with his own fingers. "The shit you know she would never tell me herself." Without warning, he stands and retreats into the room.

I watch him move to the mini-bar, withdrawing two bottles of water and kissing the girls before rejoining me and sitting in his chair. When he tosses me one of the water bottles and settles back, I wonder where I should start. What could I possibly say? What can I know about Kara that he doesn't? And is it betraying confidences to tell your dead friend's secrets to the man she loved? "Where do I even start?"

He rolls his head to the side, his green eyes dancing with something akin to amusement. "She ever tell ya 'bout Paris?" I nod, and he chuckles. "Swore she didn't wanna go. Too chick flick she said."

I'm not sure how he went from crying to chuckling about taking her to Paris, but if talking about her makes him feel better, that's what I'm here for. Wait, it's not what I'm here for at all, is it? I'm here to take care of his kids. Not him. But somewhere, over the course of this night, and the weeks that have preceded it, I have mistaken my role. I have stopped being "just the nanny." He doesn't pay me to listen to his troubles, to help him grieve his wife. He doesn't pay me to so much as cast a glance in his direction.

But I did it for Kara, because she was my friend. And I'll do it for Mark for the same reason. "She did NOT wanna go to Paris. Said it was too cliché," I confirm his suspicions. "She despised anything that seemed like traditional romance. The Prince Charming on the white horse, rescuing her and carrying her off to a fairy tale happily-ever-after. That shit didn't appeal to her." With a sigh, I bring my legs up, wrapping my arms around them and resting my chin on my knees. "You did." I wink at him and he smiles, though he never really meets my eye, lost in thoughts of her. "You took her to the most romantic city in the world, only to take her to underground fight clubs and strip joints. You took her to the Eiffel Tower just to fuck her in a bathroom stall." Chuckling to myself, I roll my eyes. "That's the kinda shit that made Kara giggly and girlie."

I have learned that the most insignificant things can make Mark as pink as a peony, but somehow, the memory of taking his wife in a French bathroom only makes him smile. Perhaps he's had too much to drink, or he's just too physically and emotionally drained to be embarrassed. Either way, I find his warm smile endearing.

"Only woman I know who pouted when she couldn't get outta bed to go to strip clubs anymore." Raising an eyebrow, he sighs and relaxes against the chair. "She tell ya 'bout the three-way?" He takes a long drink of his water and continues to focus on an imaginary spot on the balcony floor. I have no doubt that he can see her twinkling mocha eyes and shimmering chestnut hair clearly in his mind's eye.

How in the world do I answer that question. Did Kara tell me about the three-way? Yeah. She told me about a few of them. In intimate detail. But how much of that can I share with him? I'm not sure, and I'm erring on the side of caution. "She told me about Candy. 'Cording to Kara, the hottest bitch to ever walk the planet." I can't help giggling when he licks his lips and nods respectfully. "She's your favorite, too, huh?"

Mark shrugs and takes another drink of his water. "She had her positive characteristics," he says as diplomatically as possible.

I roll my eyes, wanting to laugh but reserving myself. It seems disrespectful against our backdrop of silence. "You just liked watching your wife get it on with a stripper."

He doesn't argue. Have I mentioned how much I love his voice? How soothing and even it is, stable and secure. It's reassuring as it rolls through the chilling night air. "First time I brought it up, she said only if she got to pick the chick." He turns to me, as if trying to gauge whether or not I've already heard this one. I have, but I nod for him to go on. I want to hear his side. I always want to hear his side. "God, Dahlia," he laughs and shakes his head. "The ugliest dancer in the whole club, but Kara felt sorry for her. I just told her if she could do with the lights off, we'd take the chick home. It was like pickin' up a puppy from a shelter," he sighs, sucking a deep breath through his teeth and shaking his head before downing another gulp from his bottle.

"You pissed her off," I say without thinking. Maybe that's a secret that should have gone to the grave with Kara, but in the moment, I want Mark to know. I want him to know more about his wife. The bits and pieces that he never got to see. I saw them together enough to know that they had a loving relationship built on sarcasm and relentless teasing. Kara would have sooner eaten guacamole, which she hated, than let Mark know how positively ecstatic she was to see him arrive home. Now, it seems like he should know that.

His eyebrows draw together in confusion as he turns toward me. "What?"

"Remember about two weeks before you guys picked up that dancer?" I ask, hoping that I can recall the story just as Kara told me. "She saw that bike she wanted? You gave her a mile-long list about why you wouldn't buy it for her?"

"She wanted a cheap-ass, hunk of plastic, crotch-rocket-lookin' piece of shit," he spits, his eyes growing wide, incredulous. It's as if he's defending himself to her all over again. "Not my fault she had no taste."

And I can't help the laughter that explodes from my chest this time. His face is so sincere, as though he's pleading his case for me, like I can do something to change the outcome of the situation. "Well, she wanted it, big guy. You bought her a Harley instead, right?" He nods. "Yep," I settle back in my seat and finish off my bottle of water. "That's when she decided to get you something you wouldn't want and see how you felt about it."

There is a visible shudder in his shoulders, but the grin never leaves his lips. "Ya know she wore dentures, Sandy did," he informs me. I'm assuming Sandy was the ugly stripper. I never really got a name. "And I think she had a glass eye." His head lolls slowly to the side as he scrunches his nose and meets my eye. "My wife could be a bitch, ya know?" The thought seems extremely funny to him as he follows the statement with a quick chuckle. And just as quickly as he laughs, the sober sincerity of a lost widow returns. "Never backed down from a challenge, though. Never. Only woman I ever met who would put herself through more bull shit than I do just to prove to me that she could." That's not grief in his eyes, that's pure awe. Mark didn't just love his wife, he respected the hell out of her. And it's breath-taking to see that reflection even now.

"She never wanted to be the trophy wife," I inform him, thinking of the days Kara and I would contrast our lives, our desires, and the paths that life had led us down. We were about as different as two people could possibly be, but there was just something that drew us to each other. Not at all unlike the bond that I am forging with Mark now. "She wanted to keep up with you. To be good enough for you."

He shakes his head incredulously. "She was way too fuckin' good for me," he corrects. "Put me in my place, but took care of me at the same time."

There is one thing that I think he should know, but I'm not sure I should tell him. Seems to be the story of the night, huh? "Sometimes she thought she wasn't," I mutter. When I see his head turn in my peripheral, I just shake my head and remember the conversations we had before she got sick, when she was still perfectly capable of kicking ass and taking names. "When you weren't home, she worried that you would want an industry wife, someone who would follow you around the country and hang on your every word. She worried that she wasn't feminine enough for you, or smart enough, or sexy enough." I imagine the look on Kara's face when she would get the call that Mark had landed safely and would be home soon from whatever trip he'd been on that week. "And then you came home, and she was herself again. It was like she couldn't be the girl we all knew and loved until she knew you were right there with her."

Mark is silent and I wonder if I've said too much. Maybe he wanted to cling to his image of his wife. Maybe the reality isn't what he expected. I don't know what to think with him – no matter how long we live together, or how close we become, I can't imagine I'll ever really understand what goes on in his head. I'm not sure I'll want to.

"She put my last title belt through a fuckin' wall," he says suddenly. "More than once." Shaking his head, he chuckles and stands. "Can't tell ya how many times I thanked my lucky stars for findin' a woman who liked wrestlin' 'round the house with me."

I lean back and stare up at him, his tears long since dried in the presence of lighter memories. "You good now?" I ask softly, my head tilted as I consider his handsome, weathered features.

"Better," he answers, offering his hand and pulling me to my feet. "On the way to good," he adds, nudging me with his shoulder. "I try to carry it all myself, but sometimes it's nice to have someone who knows her, ya know? Just someone who can relate."

I pat his arm and nod my head slowly. "I loved her, Mark." When he opens the door, I follow him into the room and past the bed, stopping as he sheds his shirt and casts a glance at his daughters. "Sleep tight, Champ," I wink.

I can't imagine how hard it must be for him, and how long his road to healing might still be. But after that little conversation, I can't help thinking that we might make it through this after all.


	14. Chapter 14

**Boys Don't Cry**

**A/N: Okay, so I had an author's note, and now it's gone. Suffice it to say: Sorry for the delay. Enjoy!**

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I think I'm going to vomit. It's been so long since I've done anything like this, and I seriously think it's turning my stomach inside out. Coupled with the fact that Maggie seems hell-bent on perfecting the meaning of the word "brat," I'm pretty sure this is the worst night I've had in a long time. Maybe it's an omen. Maybe I should just call it a night. 

I hear heavy footsteps on the stairs, and my heart flutters just a bit. "Thank you, God," I groan, dropping my curling iron on the sink. I turn just in time to see Mark's head pop up over the landing. As he comes into full view, looking tired and somewhat vacant, I find myself growing even more nervous.

But before I can greet him, Maggie launches herself at her father's legs. "Tell Dahlia she can't go!" she demands angrily.

The look of shock that registers slightly on his face is almost cute. When he bites his lip and looks back at me, his eyebrow raised, I can't help smiling. "Where ya goin'?" he asks, carrying his daughter and a suitcase to his bedroom, dropping one of them and returning with Maggie against his hip.

"She gots a date!" Maggie points, her face twisted in disgust. I shouldn't have told her. I knew I shouldn't have. But I was so excited to finally be having a real night out, and she's the only person with which I converse on a daily basis. And now she hates me.

If Mark's eyebrow could shoot past his hairline, I'm pretty sure it would have in that moment. "A date?" he asks, placing Maggie's feet on the floor as he leans against the wall outside the bathroom.

I lean in the doorway opposite him and nod. "Yeah," I admit with a whisper.

"Tell her she doesn't need to date!" Maggie interjects again, standing between us with her hands on her tiny hips. "She gots us, Daddy."

"It's okay, Princess. Dahlia can go out and have a good time," he explains, crouching low to meet his daughter's eye.

It usually works – when Mark gets low and touches her slight shoulder with his massive paw, she usually smiles and nods and hugs his thick neck. This time, however, she just shrugs him off and shakes her head violently. "She has a good time with us."

He rolls his eyes and blushes slightly, and I can't help the impish grin that spreads over my lips when he meets my eye. "I tried to tell her," I assure him. I'm not dating her father. Mark and I are friends, at best. Just because I live with them, it doesn't mean that we're going to get married or start sharing a bedroom like he used to with her mommy. I've tried to explain it, but her young mind can't really wrap around the concept.

When he finally meets my eye again, Mark just shakes his head. Regaining his composure, he licks his lips and pulls Maggie onto his knee. I know it's uncomfortable for him, but for once, I'm so glad he's the one in the awkward position, and not me. Tucking a strand of Maggie's hair behind her ear, he presses a kiss to her forehead and shoots the most sincere eyes in her direction.

"You get to school every day, Princess. You get to see your friends and have fun with somebody other than your sister and Dahlia. And when Annie's old enough, she'll do that, too. I think it's high time Dahlia gets to go out and have fun with somebody other than us."

In theory, his words are fantastic. In reality, Maggie's not buying them, and I'm not sure I am, either. His words are perfection, but his face is conflicted. I'm not sure if he has a problem with me dating again, or if he's just thrown by Maggie's reaction to it. Of course, there's really no reason for him to be upset with me. We're friends.

"She can go out with you!" Maggie insists. "You're an adult, too. Take her to dinner, Daddy!"

He stands and rests his hands on his hips, sending the clear message that he's no longer playing around. "Maggie Grace, go to your room."

The tiny huff that escapes through her nose is almost cute. The tantrum that erupts, with her stomping foot and red face, is not. "You're such a bully!" she shouts at her father.

"I am. I'm a horrible father," he dead pans and I have to stifle my giggle. "Go to your room. Don't make me tell you again."

She stomps off and slams her door, letting out a shrill shriek. I cringe and wait for him to turn and meet my eye. "Sorry," I whisper.

But Mark just shakes his head and runs his hand over the top of his ponytail. "Nothin' to be sorry 'bout, Dahl. You're a grown woman. Don't have to answer to me."

For the most awkward minute, we just stare at each other. My thoughts drift to Maggie when I hear her tiny, ineffectual feet stomping around in her room. Then I hear the distant sounds of _Blue's Clues_ on the television in Mark's room, where Annie is probably dead to the world by now. When my eyes settle back on Mark's concerned face, I think about this date and wonder why the hell I ever agreed to it in the first place.

"Are you okay?" I blurt without thinking when he makes no attempt to move from his place. We've shared knowing looks about the girls before, but he's never studied me for so long at one time. It's unnerving. "You seem . . . I don't know . . . tweaked."

Though we've grown closer since I moved into the house with them, I'm still not sure he'll talk to me about whatever's going on in his head. I'm not sure we're to that level yet. I'm not sure if we will ever be. And I'm really not sure how I feel about that.

He nods slowly, his shoulders relaxing as he leans a hip against the wall. "I'm fine. Just didn't know you were dating again. Guess it threw me a little."

I can't help smiling as, once again, that adorable blush creeps up his neck and settles into his cheeks. With a shrug, I turn back to the bathroom, watching him through the mirror as I curl the rest of my limp hair, praying for some volume to magically appear in the next fifteen minutes. "It's not a big deal. Just thought I might like to get dressed up and have a nice man buy me some dinner."

He steps forward and leans against the door jam, his eyes focused on the reflection of mine. "So who is this guy? He good enough for you?" A smile that says he's only kind of kidding tweaks his lips.

Rolling my eyes, I wrap my final strand of hair around my iron and hold it there. "His name is Ben, and he's an investment banker from Katy," I name a town just outside of Houston.

"Where'd ya meet him?"

I flip my hair and fluff it with my fingers, then steady myself on the sink as I stand and pivot on my bare foot toward him. "Online. I don't have much of a chance to go anywhere else, so I figured I'd see what was out there, at least. This guy seems cool, so we'll see." With a shrug, I brush past him and start down the hall to my room. "If he's crazy, I can always just tell him that my ex-husband is crazy and that he might be stalking us or something."

I love the way he opens his mouth to speak, and then snaps it shut again. And by love, I mean find it incredibly annoying. The longer I know him, the more I notice it. Sometimes I want to just scream for him to say what's on his mind, but he doesn't react well to screaming.

And speaking of screaming, Maggie starts just as I enter my room. Stepping back into the hall, I reach for the door knob, but Mark waves me back. "Finish gettin' ready. I'll take care of this."

I shut the door and try to block his intense stare from my mind. There is something about that man that just sets me on edge every time we speak. I don't know what it is, and I don't know why. I just know that I'm starting to get that giddy school girl feeling in the pit of my stomach when he looks at me, and the butterflies sort of start to flutter when he smiles. And that is the furthest thing from what I need right now.


	15. Chapter 15

**Boys Don't Cry**

**A/N: What's this? Another update from me? Can it be? I can say with absolute certainty that it will be the last one until at least next week - I'm leaving tomorrow for a long weekend in St. Louis. My baby sister is getting MARRIED on Saturday, so I won't be back home until Monday. I hope this is enough to hold you over until then. Enjoy!**

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When I was a kid, I wanted nothing more than a Kid Sister. Not a sibling, but a 20" doll from Hasbro named Kid Sister that, coincidentally, looked just like me. With her two identical, blond braids, pink overalls, and freckles along her nose, the commercials promised that she would be my best friend. Seeing as I was an only child, and at the age of 7, not very social, I desperately wanted the friendship that I had been promised through Kid Sister. And on Christmas morning, I stumbled down the stairs and nearly squealed with delight to find her waiting under the tree for me. 

I couldn't wait to ride my Big Wheel in the backyard with her, just like the little girl on the commercial did. We could play on the teeter totter and have tea parties. She even played the piano with the girl on television – or so I thought. And then, after about a week, I realized that she wasn't really like a best friend. She didn't tell me jokes or share my secrets or DO anything at all. She was just a doll.

Why am I thinking about that now, twenty plus years after Kid Sister was tossed in the bottom of my toy chest? Because Ben is just like her. Well, not exactly – he doesn't have blond braids, and he's not wearing pink overalls. But he IS boring the hell out of me, talking about his job that, as far as I can tell, entails him sitting around all day and doing nothing at all. I thought I wanted this, to get out of the house and away from the work that has become my only life. But, God, what I wouldn't give to have Maggie jump out from behind the potted plant over Ben's shoulder and just dump something on his Armani suit. At least that would be entertaining.

I have managed to fake-smile through forty-five minutes of this hell called a date when my cell phone begins to ring in my purse. I know it's not proper date etiquette to leave the phone on, but what if the girls need me? It's my job to take care of them, right? Or to let them bail me out of the worst date ever.

"Hello?" I answer after checking the caller I.D. to see that it is, indeed, one of the Calaways.

"You have to come home right now," Maggie's little voice insists on the other end of the phone.

As much as I would love to jump up, run home, and shower her little face with kisses for the interruption, I would also hate to think that she had snuck away from her father in order to do it. "Maggie, sweetheart, what's wrong?"

She sighs in frustration, as though she shouldn't have to tell me. As though her word should be enough. "Daddy's hurt. You have to come home now!"

"What?" I hold up a finger and bite my lip, letting Ben know that I'm so sorry. "Maggie, put your daddy on the phone." If Mark really is hurt, I need to be there. But if this is her elaborate way of dragging me back to the house? Well, she's damn good. I'll give her that much.

She hesitates and then I hear her little feet on the hard wood of the living room floor. "He's swearin' lots," she warns me, and I can't help but laugh.

"Dahlia?" Mark's voice barely registers above a whisper, his breathing labored and heavy.

My heart jumps into my throat. "What happened?"

I hear him grunt, and the sound of his leather chair shifting. "Feedin' the damn horses. Squirrel scared Sugar 'fore I was ready to get the hell outta the way."

"Well, just stay put," I order, pawing through my purse for some cash. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes. Maybe less." When I disconnect the call, Ben is looking confused, or concerned – it's kinda hard to tell with him. "I'm so sorry, but I've gotta get back to the house."

"What happened?" he asks, making no attempt to stand.

I just shake my head and stand from my seat. If he's not going to take me home, I'll have to call a cab. Either way, I've gotta get to my family. His family. Whatever. I need to get home. "Mark's hurt."

Still, he sits in his seat, watching me in disbelief. "We're on a date, and you're rushing off to be with another man? With your boss?" He shakes his head and taps absently on the table with one finger. "He's an adult, Dahlia. He can get himself to the doctor."

A desire to punch him in the face rises in my gut, but I push it down and try to contain the nerves in my throat. I have no idea what has happened really – I know that Mark is hurt, the girls are scared, and I should be there. I don't know how badly he's injured, or what parts of him are hurt. And this yahoo is not helping matters any at all.

"Thank you for dinner, Ben." My words are curt as I turn on my heels and storm out of the restaurant, dialing information for the name of a cab service. I can't expect him to understand the reason that my heart is pounding like an agitated bird against my ribcage. I can't expect him to get the fact that I thought I was ready to date again, but I'm clearly not.

The entire ride home takes all of twelve minutes, but it feels like an eternity. When I race in the front door, Mark is sporting an ice pack on his shoulder and the girls are both sitting in his lap. I shake my head when he meets my eye.

"Can't leave you guys alone for a second, can I?" I smirk, dropping my purse by the door and moving to the coffee table near his feet. I lower myself onto the top and cross one leg over the other. "Do we need to go to the doctor?"

He grunts again, shifting his weight, and I can't help but notice the way Annie clings to his neck, her little eyes wide with concern for her father. "I'll be fine for a few days. I'm goin' down to Alabama after Backlash. Dr. Andrews will straighten me all out then."

When he lowers the ice pack, exposing his arm, I know my eyes must be the size of saucers. I can nearly feel them bulging out of my sockets. "You're not seriously going to try and wrestle, are you?" I can see the place where the muscle has bunched beneath his skin, causing a bruise and mass much higher than it should be. He's clearly in no shape to be in the ring.

But he just rolls his eyes and smiles softly. "I've worked with worse," he assures me, replacing the ice pack once more. "It doesn't really hurt that bad. Just kinda numb. I'll get a shot, somethin' to relax the muscle so it don't look so bad, and I'll be fine." He shrugs, as though it's no big deal.

"Mark, that's ridiculous," I argue, crossing my arms over my chest. "What if you just make it worse?" Maybe I should wait until the girls are in bed to have this conversation with him, but my breathing has yet to return to normal, and I can't imagine him actually thinking that wrestling is a good idea while his bicep's curled up like a garden hose. "Let's just go to the emergency room. At least let them X-ray you tonight."

"NO!" Maggie's eyes are wide, insistent, as she shifts in her father's lap and grips his massive thighs in her small hands. "They don't fix people there!"

When her shoulders begin to shake, Mark throws his ice pack to the floor without a second thought and curls his oldest daughter to his chest. "It's okay, Princess," he whispers against her head when she begins to cry softly. "I'm not goin' to the hospital. I'm gonna be just fine, baby girl." He casts me a worried look that says he's not sure what to do.

"Daddy's stayin' right here with you," I assure her. I slip my pumps from my feet and pick them up, standing from the table. "I'll get you more ice," I whisper, grabbing the bag from his side and patting his shoulder as I place a kiss on Maggie's head.

Don't get me wrong. I don't like the idea of him wrestling. At all. But the last time Maggie was at the hospital, it was for an appointment with her mom. The last time she saw any of their family doctors, it was on the day that her mother passed. The thought of her dad going to the same place can only mean one thing in her young mind. She's come so far in talking about her mom, and smiling about her. I'm not about to be the one who drives her back into her grief.


	16. Chapter 16

**Boys Don't Cry**

So I have this problem. When Mark got injured, and went in for surgery, I cried myself to sleep at night with worry for him. When he came home, I got this overwhelming rush to care for him until he was better again. I have this burning desire to make sure I know his favorite meals and that they're prepared just the way he likes them. I think I'm falling for Mark. Of course, I try to keep the girls my top priority, but I'm beginning to feel an equal necessity for keeping their father happy and healthy. It's not my place, and I'm not doing it out of a sense of duty. I'm doing it out of a sense of affection. That first night, after he came home from the hospital, I tried to tell myself that he was my friend, and that's why I cared so much. I tried to tell myself that I used to do the same things for Kara, when she was sick.

But I never noticed the way Kara's eye crinkled in the corners when she laughed. And my heart never skipped a beat when she called me "Dahl." And I sure as hell never wondered what her arms would feel like around me as I slept.

Sitting on the back porch, as Mark puts the girls to bed, I can't help re-evaluating my station in life. I get paid to be here, to watch after the girls and tend to the house. It's my job. And because it's a job, I have to ready myself for the possibility that I won't have it forever.

Either I will choose to move on, or Mark will make that choice for me. And though I'm not sure when that will happen, I can't help feeling for the girls. How will they react to a new woman in their father's life? And how will they react to my absence? It's been hard enough for them to adjust to life without their mother. Will they be able to rebound from losing another maternal figure in their lives? Maggie is starting to cope, I know. She's far less bratty, and far more settled into the life that we've created. Annie has just recently started to regress, which my sister assures me is a sign of grief.

She was potty-trained when her mother died, and fully content to feed herself and watch cartoons alone in bed until she fell asleep. But lately she's been wetting the bed, refusing to eat until someone holds the fork for her, and crying when her father or I leave the room. It took months for that behavior to start, and I'm afraid that the cycle will start over again by the time she's recovered.

I worry for those girls like they were my own, and I worry for myself. I know that I shouldn't be thinking of Mark like I do. I know that I shouldn't feel butterflies in my tummy when I hear his heavy footsteps in the kitchen now. But I do. That giddy feeling is rising in my chest again. I don't know how to face him anymore, because I'm pretty sure he can tell that something has shifted.

Of course, Kara always said he was pretty oblivious when it came to anything dealing with females. She said that he wouldn't notice that she was angry until she snapped and took his head off. That he never really noticed that she was horny until she stripped down and jumped on him. That he never fully accepted that she had forgiven him for something until she spoke the words to his face. So maybe I'm safe. Maybe I can put it out of my mind until I get over it. If I can carry on with business as usual, I'm pretty sure I can move past whatever this is I'm starting to feel.

The glass door slides on its track, alerting me to the visitor. Mark dangles a beer bottle in front of my face, and then moves to his own chair when I take it. This is our routine. It's what we do since he's been home. I fix dinner, we eat together, watch a movie or ride the horses with the girls, and then I bathe them and Mark puts them to bed. When the house is quiet and the girls are sleeping, Mark and I sit together on the porch. Sometimes we speak. Sometimes we just enjoy the silence. But he's been home for nearly a month, and we haven't missed a day yet.

"You do somethin' different with your hair?" Mark asks, his voice carrying a slight hint of amusement.

With one finger twirling a strand of my hair, I turn my face toward him and nod. "I highlighted it this afternoon while Annie was asleep," I acknowledge.

When he smiles and nods, I feel the fluttering again. He takes a long drink and then swallows before speaking. "Maggie said she wanted to dye her hair tomorrow," he informs me.

Of course. He didn't notice, Maggie told him. She's far more observant than her father, and I have to keep reminding myself of that fact. One slip up in her presence, and she'll have us wed with three more children before I can extinguish the flames of disaster.

For a long while, we sit in silence, he with his thoughts and me with mine. I can't help but wondering what he's thinking. I hate this part of realizing you have feelings for someone. I hate the part where you second-guess all of the things you never had to worry about when you were just friends. Before, when I wondered what he was thinking, I would ask. Now I'm not sure I want to know. Now I'm just worried about him realizing my secret.

"I was thinking about taking the girls to my mom's next weekend," he finally speaks, breaking our silence. "She's been asking to see us." Picking at an imaginary piece of lint on his jeans, he bits his bottom lip and glances at me. "Figured you could use a weekend off about now."

I want to tell him that I won't know what to do with myself for an entire weekend without them, but instead only nod. "Sounds like fun," I manage to smile good-naturedly. It feels forced on my lips, but hopefully, he won't notice.

"You doin' alright?" he asks, his eyebrow raised in concern. "You've been quiet lately." When I nod my head and take another drink, he does the same. "You still mad at me?"

I was. For awhile, I was livid that he had chosen to wrestle twice more after knowing that he needed surgery. I was ready to test his hide when he told me that he needed to keep up with the storyline for just a couple more shows. And I wasn't really shy about telling him that it bothered me. Of course, that was before I put a name to hat I was feeling. That was back before I was afraid to be concerned for his health.

"I'm not mad," I tell him, finally turning to meet his piercing green eyes. My stomach lurches and I fear I might have to jump up and vomit over the side of the deck. Though I manage to stay in my chair, the nausea that his stare invokes is not subsiding. "I've just been thinking a lot. About taking a vacation."

He nods and then places his bottle on the deck, his hands folded behind his head as he stretches his long body. "Ya know, if you need some time off, just tell me, Dahl. Especially now that I'm around more. I know that it's been a lot for you to take care of all of us."

"It's not that at all!" I assure him, my head shaking insistently. I've been sitting here all night, thining that I need to get away from him, but now I don't want him to think I need to get away. God, my head is so fucked up right now. "I really don't mind," I assure him.

He just leans back and stares at the open sky, his breathing steady as he contemplates whatever comes next. "You heard from Ben lately?" he asks.

It's the first time he's mentioned anything about my date, my one and only, since his injury. I can't seem to stop the blush from rising in my cheeks when I realize he's waiting for an answer. "Nope," I say, clearing my throat and raking my fingers through my hair. "He sent a couple of e-mails, but I haven't answered him."

He looks at me in confusion. "You know, I don't mind if you want to see him again. You deserve a life, Sweetheart. And if you're ready to move on," he starts.

But I hold up a hand in protest. "I'm not," I exclaim, shaking my head vigorously. "I mean, I thought I was. Maybe I am. I don't know," I stammer over my words. I'm ready to move on with you, I want to exclaim, but can you image just how mortifying that would be?

Mark is a man who chooses his words wisely. He's the kind of man who never speaks without fully considering the ramifications of his words. Most of the time. So when he doesn't speak for a long moment, I'm not surprised or discouraged. "It's okay that you're ready to move on," he finally says, his face turning slowly toward him. "It threw me off at first, but it's okay."

"Why did it throw you?" I ask without thinking. He's not one to discuss his feelings, and asking him to do so usually results in some sort of shrug or grunt.

But this time, he just takes a deep breath and levels me with his honesty. "Because I'm not ready to."

I shake my head and extend an arm toward him. I would lay it against his if he wasn't just out of reach, and if I wasn't afraid of the electrical current I know it would send through my fingers.

"Mark," I whisper against the night. "My marriage ended long before my divorce. Maybe I wasn't ready to accept it, but I knew it. Yours ended before it should have. My ex-husband was an ass. Your wife was brilliant and beautiful and amazing. It's okay that it takes you longer to get over yours," I tell him, aching to make him realize he has nothing to be ashamed of.

And there's the shrug. I knew it was coming at some point, the tell-tale sign that this topic of conversation has come to a definite end. Honestly, that's okay. I'm not sure how much more of it I can take.

But the sad, forlorn look in his eyes does answer some of my questions. It tells me that, no matter how many times he smiles my way, or brushes against me in the kitchen, he's not thinking of me like I'm thinking of him. It tells me that he's in no shape to even consider moving on, and that I should be embarrassed for wishing that he was. And it tells me that I need to re-evaluate this job before anyone's heart gets any further involved. Especially mine.


	17. Chapter 17

**Boys Don't Cry**

When I was a kid, I could never sleep the night before vacation. Even if we were just going away for the weekend, or spending the night at Grandma's, I would pack my bag, and then sleep with it in my bed. I would wake up several times in the night, afraid that I would miss my mom coming in to tell me it was time to leave. I was literally afraid that they would leave me behind because I was still sleeping and they didn't want to wake me. I was five. Give me a break.

Maggie, apparently, is not like I was as a kid. She doesn't like to leave her house, even for night trips. Even when we're flying out to visit her dad on the road, she drags her feet and whines about having to leave her dolls behind. Even a visit to her grandmother, who she hasn't seen in months, makes her a whimpering, annoying little mess. And it doesn't help that Mark gets frustrated when she whines. I mean, yeah, it's irritating. Yes, I would like to hang her upside down by her ankles and shake the bitch right out of her, but she's just a kid. Grouching and growling at her isn't going to make her stop. It just makes things worse.

So I'm stuck in a house with Groucho Mark, Slow Poke Maggie, and Annie Cries-A-Lot. I thought I was going to be sad to see them go. Turns out, I'd like to kick all three of them out of the house for three months, instead of days.

"Annie, come on," I beg as Mark stomps around the living room, speaking in rushed tones to someone on the phone. "Two more bites and your done," I promise, holding the spoon of cereal to her lips.

But she purses them together and shakes her head. "P'omise," she demands.

My shoulders sag. She's been begging me to go with them since I packed their bags yesterday. I keep telling her that it's a special weekend with her daddy, but Annie's having none of it. She's just not content if we're not all together. I wish that I could give in and just go, but I wasn't invited. And I'm not sure I would have accepted if I had been. I need this time apart from them. I need to see that I can still survive without them, that I can still be Dahlia, not just the Calaway nanny. I need to know that I can function on my own, because I somehow just know that the day is coming when I'll have to.

The more I spend time with Mark, the more aware I become of the fact that my feelings are not going away. If anything, they're growing. Everything he does is cute, or adorable, or sexy as hell. Everything he says shoots a shiver down my spine. I'm in the crushed-out phase that I haven't been in since before I met Jason, and it's getting out of control. If I can't make it through three days without them, I know I can't stay here after they return.

Maybe my logic is twisted, but I need to know that I'm something other than their stand-in mommy. As much as they have come to need me, I need to know that I don't rely as heavily on them as I'm afraid that I do. If it hurts too badly, if my mind can't come to terms with the reality of our situation, then I'm going to have to remove myself from it. I don't like the thought – actually, I hate it – but I don't live in a romance novel world. I'm not going to get my way in the end, if I just want it badly enough. These are real people, with real emotions, and real hearts to break if things go badly. I have to do the right thing. I have to distance myself.

"I'm not going with you, Annie. Daddy is going with you, and you're going to have a great time with Grandma, okay?" She shakes her head, and her face twists with anger, turning a deep shade of pink before she wails in response.

Lifting her out of the chair, I try to assure her that I will be waiting when she returns, but the words feel hollow on my lips. I would never just leave without telling them that I was going. But in moments like this, I think it might be better if I did. If Annie is this upset over one weekend without me, I'm not sure what she's going to do when I move out.

"Dahlia, can I have orange juice?" Maggie asks.

When I turn to see her in the doorway, she's yet to change out of her pajamas, like I told her to an hour ago. "Why aren't you dressed, Maggie?" I ask.

She just shrugs and moves toward the refrigerator, pulling it open to stare up at the contents. "Cause I want orange juice," she answers as though it's obvious.

Shaking my head, I point to the door. "No orange juice until you change your clothes. Now go. Your daddy's been ready to leave for an hour now."

"He's always ready to leave," Maggie pouts, turning to see her father pacing the living room. "He's gonna be boring and make us listen to stupid music in the car."

I shake my head and can't help smiling. Though I know the girls love Mark, and he loves them, it's been awhile since they've spent alone time together. I understand her apprehension, mostly because I know he's just as nervous. But they're a family. They'll work it out.

"No, he's not," I assure her, cradling Annie on my hip as I lead Maggie back toward the stairs. "I made a cd for you to take, and I told your dad to let you listen to it for at least half of the trip. He's going to compromise with you, okay?"

She looks hesitant as we enter her bedroom, but she nods anyway. "Why can't you just come with us?" she asks, her eyes wide and her voice vulnerable. "Daddy's always happier when you're around."

He is? Mark's happier when I'm around? That thought makes the butterflies in my tummy do somersaults, but I have to remind myself that Maggie seems to have made it her mission in life to set me up with her father. They say that kids are more observant than we give them credit for, and it seems that she knows this isn't a forever arrangement. She knows that it will end eventually, and a marriage between Mark and myself seems to be her only way to stop that from happening. I wish that I could assure her otherwise, but even I know that she's right. It's going to end.

"Your daddy is happiest when he's spending time with his family," I correct her, sitting on the bed and kissing the top of Annie's dark head. She's calmed now, or at least stopped crying, and I don't want to do or say anything to scare her further. "He's gonna be with you guys, and with your grandma and your uncle. He's gonna be the happiest you've ever seen him."

She looks skeptical, but Mark pokes his head into the room and Maggie says nothing. She just tears her nightgown over her head and begins stepping into her shorts begrudgingly. "I'm almost ready, Daddy," she assures him.

Mark just nods and meets my eye, nodding over his shoulder. I stand and pass Annie to him before stepping into the hallway. "What's up?" I ask cautiously.

"There's a list of stuff that needs to get done while I'm gone. I know it's not in your job description, but someone needs to be here to sign for the horse feed, and the company's sending some papers for me, so I need you to sign for the UPS," he says nervously, as though asking the world of someone who would never agree to deliver it.

Except that he's asking me. And I can't imagine not doing whatever he asks of me. "It's not a problem, Mark. I'm not planning on going anywhere," I tell him, reaching out to touch his arm.

Huge mistake. The electricity jumps and crackles, and the look in his eyes ssys he feels it, too. Or maybe that he's just surprised I touched him. Maybe I'm reading too much into it. I tend to see little signs in things that aren't really there these days. "You sure?" he asks, shaking his head when Annie tugs on his ponytail.

"Of course," I say, withdrawing my hand and then awkwardly shoving it into my pocket. "It's not a big deal." Maggie joins up, and I clap my hands together. "I think it's time for you guys to get outta here."

Tromping down the stairs, the three of them move toward the door, me following a few steps behind. Tears prick the backs of my eyes, but I blink them back. It's just a weekend. I'll be fine. They'll be fine. Everyone will be fine. "Have fun," I call out when Mark opens the door and hands Maggie her suitcase.

"No wild parties," he winks at me.

"And no boys in the house," Maggie adds, her face stern.

I roll my eyes and jump off of the bottom step, following them to the doorway. "I promise to be a good girl," I laugh, holding up a hand as a vow. "Call me when you get there?"

And it's Mark's turn to roll his eyes. "Yes, mother," he teases and then winks again before opening the door of the truck and sliding Annie inside.

As I watch them pull away from the house, I can't help letting a tear fall as I shut the door. Alone in the house for three whole days. It's nice – I can do whatever I want. If only I could figure out what the hell that is.

* * *

For the most part, I found that I had no problem keeping myself occupied for the first day after Mark and the girls left for his mother's house. He called to let me known that they had arrived, and I settled in to cleaning the house – really cleaning it, the way you can't when there are kids around – and pampering myself with a home pedicure and long, relaxing bubble bath. I drank wine and watched old Audrey Hepburn movies before falling asleep on the couch in one of Mark's old tee shirts.

I convinced myself that wearing his shirt was okay, because I had plenty of laundry to do the next day, and he would never have to know. And if I never got another chance to sleep in one of his shirts, I thought I should at least know what it felt like. Delusional, I know, but I just couldn't resist.

When I woke up this morning, the scent that is uniquely Mark – soap and masculinity – filled my nostrils. I buried my hair in his pillow (yes, I'm aware you think I'm a stalker now) and allowed myself a long moment of fantasy. Noting too crazy, just thoughts of waking up beside him, lazily starting our day before the girls came to wake us.

And by the time I shook myself from my crazy stupor, it was nearly ten o'clock. I honestly can't remember the last time I slept that late, but it was nice.

After a shower and a quick trip out to feed the horses, I settle in to the kitchen table for a relaxing afternoon of scrapbooking. It's funny, you know, the direction that my life has taken. If you had told me fifteen years ago that I would be a domestic caregiver who enjoyed trips to the zoo and scrapbooking? Well, I wouldn't have had time to laugh at you because I would have been on the way to a business meeting or something equally important.

But I love this. This life that I have created since my divorce is more fulfilling than anything I could have possibly majored in back in college. Watching the girls laugh at nothing at all, or seeing them finally comprehend something that I've repeatedly tried to teach them is more rewarding than any recognition by any board I can imagine. That smile that Mark gets when he walks into the laundry room and I hand him the socks he's been searching the house for, before he even asks for them fills me with more pride than a multi-million dollar merger would have ever given me. And creating a scrapbook of memories makes me absolutely giddy. I don't know what's happen to me over the course of the last seven months, but I know that I like it. I know that I can't even fathom any life outside of this one.

I am about to start the first page of the new book when a knock sounds at the front door. I know that Mark is expecting a package, and a feed delivery, so I grab a pen, ready to sign.

When I open the front door, though, I'm surprised to find a buxom red-head with a heart-shaped face and the tiniest shorts I have ever seen. "Can I help you?" I ask, my face twisted in confusion as her eyes scan the yard and then settle on me, a wide smile stretching across her perfect lips.

"Hi," she waves shyly and casts another glance back to the driveway. "Is Mark home?"

I shake my head, and bite the inside of my lip. I don't know this woman. Of course, I don't know any of Mark's friends, but this one is a little too perfectly polished for my taste. "He took the girls to his mom's house for the weekend," I tell her.

Her green eyes cloud over with something akin to disappointment as she stuffs one hand into the pocket of her shorts and twirls her keys on the other hand. "Oh," she bites her pouty lip and then meets my eye again. "I'm sorry, I'm Gloria," she says, her hand withdrawing from her shorts and extending to me before I even realize she's moved.

Accepting the hand, I notice her firm grip and nod. "I'm Dahlia," I introduce myself, but give her no further information. It's really none of her business who I am, is it? If she's such good friends with Mark, she can just ask him.

And why am I suddenly catty like a junior high girl? Because this perfect, beautiful, young thing is asking for Mark, and all I can see is Jason's new toy, driving off with my car. Not Gloria's fault, I know, but still.

"Dahlia," she repeats my name and it drips from her lips like that flavored syrup you can pump into your coffee. "You're the nanny," she nods, her eyes brightening suddenly. "That's right – Mark told me that you were living here now."

I want to stick the heel of my flip flop in her perfect face, and I don't even know why. I have no reason to hate this woman. For all I know, she could work at the feed store. Shit, she could be a sister-in-law, for that matter. "I'm sorry – he hasn't mentioned you."

If she's hurt by that fact, she doesn't show it. In fact, her eyes twinkle with even more amusement. "I don't suppose he would," she bites her lip and looks at me, almost shyly. "Can you tell me something? Just between you and me, of course?" I shrug, and I'm sure she's starting to realize that I'm none to fond of having her on my porch. I'm not usually so rude, but there's something about this woman that's rubbing me the wrong way. "How's he doing these days? Ya know, with everything?"

I want to ask how she thinks he's doing. His wife died, and then he got injured during the biggest upswing his career has seen in years. "He's good," is all I answer, hoping she'll get the hint that I don't want her there.

But she doesn't leave. They never do. The pretty, little, young ones never seem to know when they're not welcome. They never seem to realize that someone might NOT think they're cute enough to eat up with a spoon. "Well, is he, um," she stammers, a blush creeping into her cheeks, "ya know, is he seeing anyone?"

I want to smirk and tell her that he's seeing me and that we're wildly happy together and planning a fall wedding. I want to see her plump lips fall from that hopefully dreadful smile. But I can't do it. Dammit, I never could lie to save my soul. "I don't think he's ready for that yet." I cross my arms over my chest in the hopes that, maybe, she's not as dense as she looks.

With a sad nod, she begins to twirl her keys again. "I guess not," she concedes. "Well, if you could just tell him that I stopped by, and that I managed to get those season tickets he wanted." She turns to leave and then looks back at him. "Actually, just have him call me, okay?"

I nod half-heartedly and step back into the house. Why does it feel like my heart is about to explode? For more than a month now, I have tried to convince myself that this day was coming – the day when other women would want to be a part of Mark's life. Hell, if I'm honest, thousands of women already want to be a part of his life. But this one was real. She was perky and personable and full of charm. She was everything he's going to want when he does decide to get back out there again.

She is the only reminder I need that things with Mark and I will never work.


	18. Chapter 18

**Boys Don't Cry**

I know I shouldn't have let Gloria bother me. I don't even know who she is or what her relationship to Mark may be. Really, it was good that she showed up, because it showed me just how fucking crazy I have become. Seriously. One second, I was seething about her, and the next, I was wishing that I knew her last name so that I could google her skanky ass. And that was my moment.

Everyone has a moment when they know that they've gone insane, I think. It's that click in your brain that tells you rational thinking has gone the way of tight-rolled pants and teased hair do's. That moment when you just know that logic no longer applies to you. I hit that moment, and it scared me shitless.

And it's an endless cycle, really. Because as soon as I felt the click, I did something even more insane to balance myself. Of course, at the time, it seemed like a good idea. It seemed like the only way to get myself back on the right track. It seemed like the most logical decision in the world.

I called Ben and invited him to dinner at the house. I need something to get my mind off of Mark – a distraction. Audrey Hepburn was good for last night, but unless I break into Mark's whiskey stash, she ain't gonna cut it tonight. Nothing but the mindless droning of someone completely dull is going to keep my thoughts in check this time. And before you jump to tell me that it's never going to work, be assured that I know that. I just have to convince myself that it's the right choice. Because he'll be here in thirty minutes.

Dressed to impress, while still looking like I'm not trying too hard, I rush around the kitchen to check on my meal. Nothing fancy. That's what I told him. Just dinner to make up for the fact that I've been horribly rude in avoiding his calls.

Dinner is nearly finished when the phone rings. Since it's only the house phone, I'm tempted not to answer, but the papers Mark was expecting didn't show today, so I'm worried it might be something important.

With the phone cradled between my shoulder and my cheek, I stir the gumbo on the stove and push a wayward strand of hair from my mouth. "Hello?"

"Hey." Mark's voice is low, as always, and tickles my ears. Everything he says seems to roll over his lips, slow and easy. It's calming, even when I should be freaking out.

"Hey yourself," I smile, dropping my spoon onto the stove and turning. With my back resting against the counter, I stare at my pink toenails and nibble on my lip shyly. When he's not around to see me, I can be as coy as I want to be when he is. "What's up, big guy?"

He chuckles and I hear him groan slightly. He is sitting – he always groans when he sits, as though it's a chore to lower his body from it's normal stature. "Nothin' much. Girls are helpin' Mom with dinner. Thought I'd check in."

There's nothing to check in on. Honestly, the girls are with him and he knows that I have everything under control. So why is he calling? Is it because he misses me? Is it because he's thought of something to add to me chore list? Is it because he's got the same insane need to hear my voice as I have with him?

"Everything's great here. Still haven't heard anything from UPS, but other than that, it's under control," I assure him, turning to adjust the temperature on the stove before walking from the kitchen and easing myself into his recliner.

The leather is soft beneath me and it carries his scent – I know I'm supposed to be getting over that, but it's not my fault that it just sits here, smelling like him.

"I called Vince on the papers – he said they'll be there by ten tomorrow morning for sure," he tells me, a soft sigh riding the undercurrent of his words. He is leaning back, resting his head against the chair in which he sits, and closing his eyes. I can see him fully in my mind as my own eyes drift shut to admire the mental portrait.

I mumble something in response, though I'm not sure what. I think I could fall asleep like this. "Oh," I start, knowing this has the potential to bite me in the ass. "Your friend Gloria stopped by today."

"Gloria?" His voice is confused, and my heart jumps. Maybe they're not having the torrid affair I had imagained earlier.

I nod and sit up a little straighter. "Cute little thing? Red hair? Said she has the season tickets you wanted," I go on, hoping to jog some sort of recollection. Perhaps she's repulsive to him. I think that would make me happy.

"Gloria," he chuckles, and it's not the horrified expression I had hoped for. In fact, I think his tone was actually warm. "Damn, I didn't think she'd remember that."

"Well, she did," I snap. At least I think I snapped. I felt snippy, at the very least. "She was very interested in you," I sneered, though I'm not sure why. It wasn't as though I wanted to pick a fight.

Mark grunts. "I'm sure she was," he responds, and I can see his eyes roll in my mind. "One of the fellas at work introduced us back a few months ago. She's a dancer with the Rockets," he explains.

Mark's favorite basketball team – the Houston Rockets. Of couse she's a dancer. Of course she is. "Oh," is all I say, hoping that he can hear that I'm not interested.

"She's sweet," he adds, his tone holding a finality that lets me know he'll answer no more questions about her.

It's in that moment that I hate Mark Calaway. Hate him in that way that you can only hate someone for whom you have a completely unrequited love. I hate him for thinking anyone else is sweet or attractive or even nice. If I knew that he felt the same way about me, I might find Gloria's little crush cute. Instead, I hate it – because he might not.

"So what have you guys been up to today?" I ask in an attempt to quench the silence and change the subject.

"We took the girls to the park, and then the grocery store." He chuckles, this really inviting, intoxicating sound. "Which, by the way, is not exactly fun."

The laughter that escapes from me is sudden. "Tell me about it."

We continue to talk about the girls and their trip for another few minutes, and then he floors me with a question so simple I can't manage to answer it. "So what are you up to tonight?"

Do I tell him about Ben? Why would I not tell him? Oh, right. Because I already told him that I didn't want Ben. Because in my crazy, irrational mind, I am convinced that he will know I'm only trying to force him out, to distance myself from him. And then he will ask why, and I will be forced to admit my feelings for him. I can't do that yet, so I lie. I'm not good at it, and it's not easy, but I do it because it's better than getting caught in my infatuation.

"Not much," I say, and then mentally smack myself in the head for being so ridiculous. "Stayin' in, makin' dinner. Might watch a movie." That's not a total lie, is it? I mean, I am staying in and making dinner. And if Ben wants to, I might be watching a movie. So maybe I'm not the horrible deceiver that I think I am.

"Sounds good to me," he says, and I literally have to swallow the urge to tell him I wish he was here with me. For the record, I hate myself right now.

"Well, I better get back in there. I think dinner's almost finished. The girls," he starts and then hesitates. "They miss you, Dahl."

Maybe it's my newly developed craziness, but I'm almost sure that hesitation was him swallowing back the fact that he misses me, too. I would give my left nipple to hear him say those words. But he won't. I know he won't.

"Well, I miss you guys, too," I tell him, and then realize what I've said. Holding my breath, I wait for his response.

I can hear the chair squeaking on his end and I know that he's stood, preparing himself to re-enter the house. "I'll give ya a call before we head out tomorrow, okay?"

I just nod and mutter something of a good-bye, hanging up the phone just as the doorbell rings. I want him to miss me. I want to be free to miss him when we're apart, but that's not how this thing works with us. Tonight is the first step in moving forward. Tonight, I get on with my life.


	19. Chapter 19

**Boys Don't Cry**

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**A/N: Okay, so things have sucked around here lately, but my inspiration for Mark and Dahlia seems to be flowing. To those of you who have complained recently that nobody updates anymore - I ask you: what am I? A bologna sandwich? I have updated more this week than I have in the last couple of months. Give me a break here! And to the rest of you: thanks so much for adding this story to your favorites and leaving me words of encouragement and review. I love you guys - you make things so much easier than they seem to be at the moment. Enjoy!**

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I honestly do not know how it happened. I really don't know what I was thinking, or who initiated it, or why it ever too place to begin with. I could blame the wine that he brought, or the loneliness that I was feeling, but blame doesn't change the fact that it happened. Blame doesn't make it go away. 

And Blame won't change the horrified look in Mark's eyes when he pushed through the front door to find myself and Ben sharing breakfast at the kitchen island, he in his boxer shorts and me in his polo shirt from the night before. And it won't retract the painful look of crushing heartbreak on Maggie's face when she stepped around her father to throw her arms around me, and then stopped short to stare at the stranger in our midst. And it surely won't take away the wail of contempt that exploded from Annie's throat when her father set her on the floor and demanded that she go upstairs with her sister.

Nothing changes the way that he is looking at me now, has been looking at me since Ben left nearly an hour ago. It's as though he won't allow me to leave his presence, like he's afraid I might have another naked man hiding somewhere else in the house.

"Are you gonna talk to me, or just shoot bullets from your eyeballs all day?" I finally ask, irritated that he seems to demand an explanation, but won't ask for one. Though I have nothing but great admiration for the man, his ability to reduce me to a pile of little girl is annoying. Especially when I'm trying to believe that I have nothing to be ashamed of.

He heaves a sigh and casts a glance up the stairs. I don't know what he's so worried about. The girls haven't come out of their rooms since they got home. "Porch," he points over my shoulder and I follow him like a scolded puppy dog. "What the fuck were you thinking, Dahl?" With one hand on his hip and the other on his forehead, I can almost feel the frustration rolling off of him. "In my house? You knew we were comin' home today!"

"You said you were going to call first," I remind him. In my head, the plan made sense. In my head, he would call, wake me up, and I would have plenty of time to kick Ben out before the girls got back. Before Mark got back. None of them were supposed to know that he had ever been there. If you ask me, stupid Mark is the one to blame for not calling in the first place.

He leans against the porch post, his arms crossed over his chest. His eyes search the yard for something, though I'm not sure what. "So this is my fault?" When his emerald orbs turn back to me, there is a fire in them I'm not sure I've ever seen. "You're in MY house."

"Alright, fine," I throw my arms up, unsure of what else I can do for him. I don't know how to say that I'm sorry for what he's seen. I don't want to say too much. "Mark, what do you want me to say? I didn't mean for him to still be here, okay? I didn't think you'd get home until later. I thought he would be gone." I lower my eyes, like a child scolded. More than shame, though, I just don't want to see that hurt look in his eyes. I'm not sure if he seems hurt because of what he's seen from me, or if it's because he's jealous. I know what I'd like to believe, but it's hard to tell.

Mark doesn't notice my struggling emotions, though. Or if he does, he doesn't care. For a man who never says anything, he sure is determined to say something now. "What were you thinking? Doin' that here at all? You had to know that this was a possibility! You're not stupid, Dahlia."

"I'm sorry," I blink, taking a step back as my defenses raise. I was wrong, and I can admit that, but his continued berating makes me feel like a child. And I'm not a child. "I thought I lived here, too. I thought you said 'make yourself at home, Dahl.' I thought I could date whoever the hell I wanted!" I know that my voice is raising, and that the girls will be start crying soon. If they decide to come out of their rooms.

Mark's eyes flash at the tone I've taken with him. "I said I didn't care if you dated. I didn't think I had to tell you not to host a fuck fest in my damn house!" His arms fly up, his fists grasped, and then slam back to his thighs. He's really angry. Really angry. I take a step back because I've never seen him quite so enraged. "I thought you said you didn't even like that weasily, little bastard!"

At once, my stomach lurches and I have to grip the porch post to keep from vomiting. If ever a jealous statement was made, that was it. I know now. He cares about me. If only I can get him to admit it. "Is this about me fuckin' in the house? Or about me fuckin' Ben in the house?"

With a sudden quickness, he turns angry eyes on me and glares. "Both."

The idea that he might actually care about me should calm me down. Instead, it has the opposite effect. I can't help getting angry with him for not being able to express himself. I can't help feeling my own rage at the fact that he won't tell me how he feels. Granted, I haven't told him, but I was waiting for him to be ready. If he's ready, he should tell me so I can stop running around like crushed-out girl.

"I am a grown woman, Mark," I remind him, my voice steady, but clearly in the mood for no shit. "I'm sorry that you're not ready to move on, but I am. And this is how I choose to do it." I know that it is stupid – pushing him to say it. I know that it's never going to work. But I can't help hoping, because that's what love makes you do. It makes you hope for the best, even when you're staring in the face of the worst.

I wait with baited breath as he collects his thoughts. "Not in MY house," he growls in my direction, his eyes narrowed as he takes a step toward me and then motions over his shoulder. "You can move on with whoever you wanna move on with, Dahlia, and you can do whatever the fuck you want. But I can't allow you to parade around in front of my girls like that. I won't."

Allow? Okay, there are a few words that will put me in a fighting mood, even if all I wanted to do was love you a second ago. Allow, permit, forbid . . . I think you get the drift. "You won't ALLOW it?" I ask, one of my eyebrows raised. "Look, I know that I live here, Mark, but I'm not one of your girls. You can't tell me what to do."

His body is tense with anger, a discomfort between us like I have never felt before. "You live under my roof, you live by my rules," he shrugs, as though that should be the end of it. As though I should just listen to what he says because he said it. "You can do whatever you want, as long as it isn't going affect me or the girls."

"Bet you'll change your mind when Gloria comes over," I mutter under my breath, knowing that it's immature, but failing to care.

Mark's a fighter and he opens his mouth to fire back before my words have even registered in his brain. Snapping his mouth closed, he tilts his head in confusion. "What does she have to do with any of this?"

"Oh, come on, Mark," I taunt, my arms crossed over my chest as I stare out over the yard. "You're gonna stand there and tell me that the same rules would apply if you were ready to move on? If that perfect little thing comes over here and gets all up on you, you're just gonna say "I'm sorry, my daughters are home"?" Spinning on my heels, I level him with a pained gaze. "No, you won't. Because if you were ready to move on, you wouldn't give a fuck about what I was doing."

I'm trying to hurt him. Because he's hurt me. Because he won't tell me how he feels, or if he feels anything at all. Because I so desparately want to be a bigger part of his life than I will ever be allowed to be. And because I pout when I don't get what I want. Because I don't want anyone to be happy if I'm miserable. Because I hope my words can inflict a fraction of the pain his obliviousness has caused me.

But Mark doesn't flinch, and if he's hurt, he doesn't show it. "It doesn't matter if I'm ready or not," he repeats for what feels like the tenth time, though I'm not sure he's said it more than once or twice. "I will decide what is best for my daughters, and in their current state, they don't need to see you parading around half-naked with a man you barely know!"

"Oh, you are such a fucking hypocrite." The words are out of my mouth before I can even think about reigning them back in. "You barely see them as it is, but you spend a few months at home, and all the sudden you think you know what's best for them?" I am well-aware of the sneer on my lips when my eyes meet his. "You don't know shit about those girls."

If my goal was to hurt him, I have succeeded. He physically takes a step back, his hand jerking as though he's been burnt. "You know more than me, huh? How do you expect to explain to them what they saw today, Dahlia? Since you know so much. Since I don't know my own daughters, why don't you tell me what they'll want to hear?"

As quickly as my anger flared, it fades into a hardening cynicism. It's never going to change. Things are never going to get better. It's only going to get harder. "It doesn't matter what they want, Mark," I chuckle harshly, my arms hugging my chest as a shield against him, against the night, against the truth. "They're never going to get what they want. Might as well rip the band-aid away quickly."

I can hear the self-satisfied smirk in his voice when he speaks, as though he thinks he's won the argument. Maybe he has, I don't know. "You can't think of anything to tell them because you know how bad this looks." When I open my mouth, he shakes his head. Apparently the man who says nothing is not done. "No matter what you say, it isn't going to change the fact that this should not have happened. Besides them, what about you? How many more will there be?"

And suddenly, it clicks. Everything that I have known about him, about our situation, about the life that we have been sharing. It's never going to work. "Kara was so right about you."

The mere sound of her name still drops his eyes to the deck, as though he's staggering under the weight of her memory. "About what?" he asks softly when I say nothing further.

With a heavy sigh, I turn toward him and shake my head in defeat. "You never see what's right in front of your face." This is it. This is my moment of truth. This is my chance to tell him how I feel.

"What the fuck are you talkin' about?" he asks, clearly exasperated at the sudden change of topic.

"You, Mark. I'm talking about you!" I explode not because I'm angry, but because I can't seem to get through to him. It doesn't matter how I try, he's always going to be stuck behind that wall of guarded defense. "Why do you think I even invited Ben over last night? Why do you think I'm so intent on moving on with my life? It's because of you, dammit!"

And he scoffs. "Me? What have I done?"

"Nothing," I sigh, my shoulders sagging in abject defeat. "You're just being you. And it's too much. I can't," I stop speaking, something seemingly cosmic holding me back from admitting too much, from telling the whole truth. Dropping to the porch steps, I hold my head in my hands and fight with the tears that are threatening to accompany my statement. "I just can't do it anymore."

It's the end of the road. That moment when you know that fighting isn't going to solve anything, and that things are never going to change. It's the moment when idealism gives way to cold, harsh reality and you just know that there's no point in pushing on – it's never going to change. It's the place where you plant the white flag and throw yourself on the mercy of your adversary. This is surrender.

Mark is standing behind me. I can feel the toes of his boots, but my body feels numb. "Can't do what? Dahlia, fill in the blanks for me here. What does your sleepin' with Ben have to do with me?" He's not waiting for me to confirm his suspicions. He really doesn't know. He has no idea that I did what I did to push him out of my head. He has no idea that I think he hung the moon and that sometimes I want to cry for no reason, because I hold so much affection for him.

And I can't tell him. I don't know why, but the words won't come. I think it's because, in reality, I know that it's about more than just my feelings for him. In reality, I know that it's about all of us, and about what's best for us. I think, at the heart of it all, I know that it just isn't meant to be. "You're gonna move on, okay?" He sinks onto the step beside me and I nudge his shoulder with mine. "You're gonna be ready eventually, and when that happens, things are going to change.

"The girls are going to have to get used to life without me. And I'm going to have to get used to like without you guys." A expel a long breath and rake my fingers through my hair, staring at him through thick lashes and aching to reach out to my friend. I need him to understand that I'm doing the best thing for all of us. "I don't know how to do that anymore. I don't know how to get by without you."

He says nothing, only stares into my eyes. Yesterday, I would have jumped for joy and called that some sort of intimate connection. But I can see it now. He's confused, and lost, and needed someone to fill in the blanks. I'm sure my eyes hold the expression. But as long as someone is filling in the blanks for us? We're never going to do it for ourselves.

With a hand on his thigh, I smile as best I can through the building tears. "My entire life since my divorce has been about you and the girls. This is all I know now, Mark. You guys are all I have. And I have to prepare myself for the fact that it's not always gonna be like this. You're gonna move on, and I'm gonna lose my job."

"Dahl, I'm not ready to move on right now," he insists, as though that changes everything. "I like my life as it is. As long as the girls are happy." He turns his face from mine and stares out over the yard. "And right now, it's you that makes them happy."

"Is that all I do?" The question is out before I can stop it, but I shake my head, feeling the blush in my neck. "Don't answer that." The torture of not knowing is better than the horror of hearing the answer, I think.

"It's not all," he assures me. "You take care of the house and," he turns his face back, a smile twitching on his lips, "you've sure learned how to thoroughly piss me off."

With a shake of my blonde locks, I dab my wet eyes at the corners and meet his eyes head on. It's enough to nearly change my mind, but I can't. This is how it has to be. "I have to go, Mark. I can't stay here."

"Why?" He leans back on his arms, his legs stretched out in a perfect picture of beautiful, lean muscles.

With a hand on his leg, I savor the feeling of the bunching muscles beneath my fingers. It is the closes I'll come to a caring touch. "Because the longer I say, the harder it gets." I worry my lip between my teeth and risk another glance at him. "For the girls, and for me."

He nods slowly, numbly, as though he's still not processing what's going on, like he can't believe it. "If that's what you think you need," he starts.

"It's best for all of us," I assure him, pushing off from my seat and struggling to my feet. I'll stay through the weekend, but then I'm gone."

I take three steps toward the house when I feel his hands on my hips, turning my body toward his. In a romance novel, this is where he would kiss me and tell me that he's been stupid in not confessing his love for me. But this is not a romance novel. Instead, he looks at me in dark confusion, his eyes studying my face intently. "What are you not telling me?"

That I love you. That I want to spend the rest of my life with you. That I want your family to be mine and I want to live happily-ever-after as Mrs. Mark Calaway? "It wouldn't matter anymore," I whisper, my palm against his cheek as I fight with everything in me not to press a kiss to his soft lips. Pulling away from his grasp, I turn and head back into the house. There is packing to do.

I only have six more days until my life, as I know it, ends.


	20. Chapter 20

**Boys Don't Cry**

Leaving the Calaway house was the hardest exit of my life. I can honestly say that it was harder than leaving my own parents for the first time, and harder than leaving the house that I had shared with Jason. Maggie used some choice words to express her anger, and Annie cried like I have never heard a child cry, even though I promised both of them that they could call whenever they needed to talk about anything. I knew that I should make a clean break, but I just couldn't let them feel like I was abandoning them.

Mark opened his mouth to speak and then snapped it shut about fifteen times before I lost count, but I can't blame him. I didn't know what to say, either. Maybe I should have been honest with him about how I was feeling, but it didn't feel like the time. Besides, my leaving was about so much more than just my crush on him. It was about all of them, and professing my love would have diminished that somewhat.

Instead, I left a scrapbook of my time with the girls on Maggie's bed, and one of Mark and Kara on his desk. I had been working on them during the girls' naps for months, and it felt like the appropriate parting gift. They needed to know that I respected their need to hold on to the past as much as I needed to move on to the future.

After a brief vacation at my parents' home in St. Louis, I decided not to return to Houston. It was actually my mother's suggestion. I guess the fact that I cried myself to sleep every night was a pretty good indication that I had become more than a nanny to the family I had abandoned, and she worried I would be too tempted to return if I stayed in town. I honestly do think she was right. The distance has eased the pain of separation a bit, and I'm finding that I can go for hours without thinking about them if I really try.

My job as the Director of Marketing at a private PR firm provides an adequate distraction, giving me upwards of 60 or 70 hours of work each week. And on top of that, Austin is one of the premier cities in the country for singles, so the dating scene has kept me busy. I'm not committed, nor do I want to be, but my weekends are usually pretty busy with men I've met through co-workers or my membership at the gym down the street from my apartment.

Sometimes I think it's strange that life so seamlessly moves on, regardless of your mental state. I used to think about that a lot when Kara died, how life didn't even seem to notice when some monumental shift took place. It's as though it can't be bothered with waiting around for you to feel up to facing it. And I guess that's better really, since most of us would never move on if it did wait.

I have spoken with Mark a few times, usually when Maggie thrusts the phone on him during our occasional conversations, but our friendship is no longer what it was. I think that's my doing, mostly. I couldn't promise him a continued relationship like the one we had – it would have made leaving pointless. It's not always easy, seeing as those conversations are what I miss the most of him, but it's what I had to do. For me.

I still have a hard time with those words. I didn't realize just how stuck I was in a cycle of catering to other people, but forcing myself to take care of Dahlia has enlightened me in many ways. I've discovered things about myself that I didn't know existed before, and I'm finding that I like the person that I am.

Perhaps that is why it is so hard for me to sit at my kitchen table and ponder the words of the pink invitation sitting before me. Maggie's sixth birthday is in two weeks, and my presence has been requested at the celebration. Of course, that's not what bothers me.

What bothers me is the hand-writing on the invitation. It's not Mark's chicken-scratches, or Maggie's child-like block letters. It is the excited bubble writing of a woman still young and idealistic enough to dot her "I" with hearts. It is the script of another woman in their lives. It's the test of everything I thought I had grown through.

With a shaky hand on the phone, I dial the number I know by heart. I have never been so delusional as to believe Mark wouldn't hire someone else after me, but the reality is like a door slamming harshly in my face.

"Calaways," the sugary voice that I don't recognize answers, and I nearly slam the phone back down. Of course, gone are the days of ghost dialing – hanging up the phone when you're not ready to speak. Caller ID and Star 69 have ruined our chances at anonymity.

"Can I speak with Maggie please?" I ask, terrified that my voice sounds as shaken as I feel.

There is a soft whisper of a harsh "no" from the woman and then her throat clears. "Can I ask who's calling?"

Already, I don't like this woman, and I have to remind myself that I chose to leave. I wasn't forced out of Mark's home – I made that decision for myself. And it was for the best. I need to let go of whatever this jealousy is, and I need to do it soon.

"I'm sorry," I apologize quickly, shaking my head to rid the myriad of emotions rushing through me. "This is Dahlia Paxton. I used to be the girls' nanny?"

"Dahlia!" She shrieks as though she knows me, and I can't fathom who this person could possibly be. "It's Gloria," she adds.

Gloria. The "sweet," red-headed dancer. Of course she's answering Mark's phone. Why wouldn't she be? "Hi, Gloria," I respond, my voice dripping with a mock sugar that only Mark would recognize. He used to call me on that all the time.

"How have you been?" she asks, and I want to bang the telephone against the table. I don't like this woman. I will never like her. She could donate a kidney or large sums of money to the charity of my choice and I would not like her. Some people just don't click with other people, and it's never really going to change.

"I've been great," I tell her, praying that the conversation will end soon. "How have you been?"

"Honestly? This whole thing hasn't been easy. The girls aren't really used to me yet." She laughs nervously and I can't help giving the girls a mental high-five. Immature, I know. I just don't care.

"Well, they're kinda territorial," I tell her. "So are you not dancing anymore?" I don't know why I keep asking questions, seeing as I don't really want to know the answers. I don't really want to be talking to her at all, yet I feel like I need to know what she's doing there.

She gives another soft grunt and then a chuckle. "Sorry. We ordered Chinese food for lunch, and Annie's determined to soak herself in Egg Drop Soup," she laughs. "Um, yeah, I quit dancing. I'm trying to help Mark get ready to head back to work."

How sweet. She really is sweet, isn't she? So helpful and . . . sweet. "Oh, well that's nice of you."

"Convincing him that we could all travel with him was a feat in itself, but I think it's better at this stage in our relationship, ya know?" She distractedly whispers something else toward Annie and then clears her throat. "I just didn't think it was healthy for our relationship to spend so much time apart when we've just started dating, ya know? I think it's better if we're together. And I surely don't want some other woman living in his house while we're gone, taking care of the girls. They need to get to know me."

I nearly drop the phone at her words. They're dating. She is his girlfriend. Mark is ready to move on. With Gloria. Sweet, perfect-bodied, dancing Gloria.

"Alright, well, I'll let you get back to Annie," I say, my body numb as I try to process the information she's given me. "Can you just tell Maggie I'm not going to be able to," I stop and rake a hand through my hair. "Actually, don't tell her I called, okay?"

She hurries through a "sure thing" and a "good-bye" before the call is disconnected. I drop my own cell to the table top and lean back in my chair.

I knew it was coming. Someday. I knew that he would have to move on and that it wouldn't be with me. But dammit if it doesn't hurt just as bad as it would have months ago.


	21. Chapter 21

**Boys Don't Cry**

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**A/N: So this story's almost done - just a few more chapters, which I'm hoping to finish up in the next week. Enjoy!**

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"You look positively decadent tonight, Love," he says with a sweet British accent that melts me from the inside. 

I met Shaun through the company, when he hired us to do some work for his new consulting business. He's handsome, charming, and well-traveled. Smells good, too.

"Thank you," I blush coyly, taking his arm and stepping out of my aparyment. When he called to ask if I'd eaten yet, I didn't hesitate. Why would I? If Mark's moving on, so can I. On any other day, I wouldn't hesitate, why should Gloria make this one any different?

We make it through almost an entire meal before a familiar ring tone catches my ear. I so badly want to ignore it, but Shaun is looking at me as though I'd better answer – it might be important.

With a forced smile, I stand from my seat and make my way out of the restaurant. "Hello?" I answer tentatively when I step into the afternoon breeze.

"Hey," Mark's standard greeting comes through. "Are you busy?"

"Having dinner with a colleague," I answer, well-aware that my tone is curt and cold. I don't care if he calls me on it, either.

But if he realizes he's being rude and interrupting a perfectly good dinner, he doesn't show it. "Gloria said you called earlier," he states, as though I should know better than to try and get anything past him.

Here's the thing – I don't owe him anything. I am not his employee, and I'm certainly not his girlfriend. Anything that he may think I owe him is absolutely incorrect. "I was just calling to tell Maggie that I couldn't make it," I lie. Actually, I was calling to ask what she wanted me to bring her for her birthday, but after hearing Gloria, things changed.

The heavy sigh that he emits is conflicting. I want to be angry at him for even questioning why coming should be a problem. But he doesn't know how I feel. How can he? I never told him. In a way, his frustration with me breaks my heart. "She's gonna be disappointed," he finally says.

I nod slowly and look over the parking lot, my eyes clouded with the pain of reality. It's going to disappoint me, too. I would love to see the girls again, to hear the sound of Maggie's giggle when she opens the gift I picked out especially for her. But it's for the best.

"Don't tell her," I respond finally, blinking back the tears. "Please, Mark, just don't tell her that I called. Tell her the invitation must have gotten lost in the mail and that you know I would be there if I had known." It seems like a logical response. It's a lie, but she doesn't have to know that. Sometimes it has to be okay to lie, to protect an innocent heart that never asked to be broken. It has to be, or I'm the worst kind of sinner, bound for an especially horrible place in hell.

He grunts and I can almost see him shaking his head in my mind. "I'm not gonna lie to her just so you feel better, Dahlia," he nearly spits, and it's the first time that I've heard any actual contempt in his voice. I so badly wanted to believe that he was okay with letting me walk away, but the tone in his voice says something else entirely.

"Then just don't tell her anything, Mark," I shoot back. I'm angry that he's angry with me. Stuck in this horrifying cycle of love and hate, I'm not sure if it ever ends or if I'll ever be okay without them. I hate that he can still make me feel that way, when I was so sure that I was beyond it.

I hear voices on the other end and he sighs again. Maybe I'm imagining things, but I'm not sure I've heard him sound so tired, so completely burnt out, since the months immediately following Kara's death. I'd like to believe that I helped curb that pain, but I can't really trust my own ears anymore. Not with my over-active imagination playing tricks on me all the time.

"Can you do me a favor?" he asks finally, his voice sounded tired and drained, as though he's reached the end of his rope. "Can you try? For the girls? Just try to be here?"

He's never asked anything of me. Well, nothing beyond basic household chores. Even when I lived there, Mark never asked me to do anything I didn't want to do. If he knew that it was something I was uncomfortable with, he let it go. I'm no more used to hearing him ask than he is to asking.

Even though everything inside of me rages and kicks against it, and even though I would rather swallow my own arm than see Gloria again, I hear the words "I'll think about it," escape my lips.

When the call is disconnected, I return to the restaurant and try to put my best face forward. Shaun is looking at the dessert menu, and smiles softly when I sit.

"Everything okay, Love?" he asks, setting his menu to the side and reaching for my hand over the table.

I barely feel his fingers brushing mine as I nod. Nothing is okay, but in that moment, I convince myself that the only way I'm going to truly let it go is to head back to Houston and face up to everything I ran away from. I can tell myself that I need to see them happy to move on. I can tell myself that once I know they're all doing okay, then I'll be okay, too. But the truth is obvious in this unexpected moment of clarity.

I run from my problems. While I'm sure that's not a shock to you, it hits me like a bolt of lightning at the table. Shaun is ordering dessert, and all I can think is that I need to stop. I'm too tired to continue. I've run until my legs feel numb, and the only way I will be allowed to get over Mark is to stop running.

When he drops me off at home, Shaun kisses my cheek and asks if he can see me again next weekend. I would love to spend the weekend in some beautiful restaurant, listening to the lilt of his sophisticated accent. But I can't. I can't make excuses anymore. "I'll be in Houston next weekend."


	22. Chapter 22

**Boys Don't Cry**

I've always loved birthdays. For as far back as I can remember, they've always been important in my family. My mother was always a stickler for traditions, and for creating memories that would last a lifetime. We used to make fun of her for it, my siblings and I, but now that I look back on it? I'm glad. Now that I think back on my childhood, I can smile at the thought of Saturday afternoons spent with my family and friends, laughing over cake and ice cream, surrounded by balloons and a mountain of presents.

Maggie will feel the same way when she grows up. I know that she will because her mother was so much like mine. And it's been clear to me all afternoon that her father is exactly the same way. I can honestly say that I didn't think Mark had it in him, but he is one hell of a party planner. I'm sure his sisters-in-law, who have flitted around like little angels all day, had something to do with it. And I can probably even guess that Gloria had some hand in the festivities. But regardless of who threw this shindig together, Maggie is having the time of her life, and that's all that really matters.

The feeling of the old lounger on the porch is welcoming as I sit in my old spot, staring at the yard and the handful of people still running around it. The girls are playing with their cousins, shrieking with a laughter that I had managed to force out of my mind. The new girlfriend sits with Mark's mother under the shade of an umbrella, charming her by listening to the woman's stories of Mark's childhood.

Am I jealous? I am. I wish that it was me sitting out there with his mother, tossing my hair over my shoulder and shaking my head at his juvenile antics. But I can comfort myself with the fact that Maggie brought each of her gifts to me for careful inspection first. She barely notices Gloria, and as silly as I know that is, I find it hard not to swell with pride over the fact that they have not forgotten me.

In fact, it wasn't until Mark brought out the sprinkler a few hours ago that Annie actually pried herself away from my hip. Time has passed, and things have changed, but the girls still love me, and that helps.

"Yer missin' all the fun," Mark's deep voice sounds behind me and I have to clutch my beer bottle to keep from dropping it.

With a soft smile, I roll my head to see him lowering himself next to me. "Just takin' a break," I tell him softly, offering him a genuine smile that feels warm against my lips. I've missed smiling at him.

There have been moments when I have enjoyed my anger toward him. At times, my frustration at his utter obliviousness has kept me warm at night. But being around him, back in his presence, I remember how good it felt to be his friend. Back before feelings got in the way and things got muddled, we were a good team. It was unconventional, but it was definitely something special.

"So," I say when it's clear that he's not going to offer anything up, "Gloria, huh?" I can't really offer anything other than that, and the chuckle in his throat says he understands.

"She's a good kid, Dahl," he assures me. "Tenacious. Determined. She likes me."

"Does she wag her tail when you walk in the room, and lick your nose when she's happy?" Though I've never expressed my dislike for the woman to anyone, I seem to have no trouble letting it out in our first quiet moment together. "Please tell me she pees on the floor when she gets excited."

When he laughs outright, I join him. Laughter is such a release – one I had forgotten until now. "She _is_ kinda like a puppy, isn't she?" His eyes crinkle in amusement as he tilts his head and considers his girlfriend. "But she's alright."

The bubbly giggle from Gloria interrupts our conversation and I shake my head. "I don't get it," I tell him honestly, though it's probably not my place to say. Hell, I've said plenty to him over the last year that wasn't my place. Why should I stop now? "But you're the one who has to wake up next to her."

He shakes his head and takes a long drink of his beer. "Nah," he corrects me, his eyes still trained on the party. "It's not like that. She helps with the girls, and we have dinner sometimes. Little bitta kissin' on the couch is all."

"Really?" I lower my beer bottle to the ground, excitement filling my chest. I push it down – I don't want to seem too enthusiastic. "Cause when I talked to her on the phone, she seemed ready for a ring."

Mark shrugs his shoulders. God, I've missed that shrug. "Don't mean I am," he answers simply. "I'm easing back into things."

There's so much I want to ask him, but none of it seems appropriate. None of it is my business anymore. It never really was. "What changed?" I ask without so much as thinking about the words.

Mark isn't much of a talker. I know he's a deep thinker, but he doesn't feel the need to express those thoughts most of the time. I don't know what possesses me to think he'll answer my question. Or that he even really knows the answer. For women, there seems to be a click – a time when you just know it's okay to move forward with your life. I'm not sure it's the same for men.

He looks at me, and it's almost as if he's staring straight through my eyes. "The scrap book."

His words cut through to my heart. I made that scrap book. If that's the reason he's moved on, then it's because of me. I did this. I pushed him into her arms. It's my fault. "How?" is all I can manage as the tears pool in my eyes. It's too much. It's finally too much.

"I looked through it, had a good, hard cry, and then looked through it again," he says, his words slow and measured. "I loved her, Dahl. Like I've never loved anybody. I'm lonely without her." He tips his bottle again, draining it in one, long gulp. "Didn't realize it when you were here. But after you left? Got a whole lot worse."

Great. Just fucking great. This is exactly what I wanted, wasn't it? To keep us all from holding back, to allow us all to move forward. And yet, somehow, I've never felt worse about a decision. Never. "Wow."

He nods. "Gloria keeps me company. Keeps my mind off the loneliness." There is a long pause and he heaves another heavy sigh. "Off you."

The words are barely audible. "What?" I know I didn't hear that right. I know my mind is playing tricks on me. I know that he didn't just say . . . "What did you say?"

He turns once again and he smiles. It's a heart breaking smile of sadness and loss, but one that says he's doing the best he can with what he's got. It's a smile of strength. "You didn't know?"

Didn't know what? What was I supposed to know. What the hell is going on? I could be at dinner with a man who openly adores me right now. But I'm not. On the porch with a fool who won't stop smiling and telling me what I wish he would have said months ago. "Know what?"

"DADDY!" Maggie's voice interrupts us and I've never wanted to tell a child to 'shut it' so badly in my life. "Come see what me and Annie made!"

He's gone before I can process anything else. Didn't I know what? That he was falling for me the same way I was falling for him? Didn't I know that he was a stupid idiot for not telling me before I walked away? Didn't I know what?


	23. Chapter 23

**Boys Don't Cry**

I feel frozen to the chair. I want to run away again, but I can't. My body will not move. I keep trying, but it just won't budge. My fingers and toes are numb. My heart is pounding against my ribcage and I really wish the porch would open up and swallow me whole.

"You okay?" a soft voice asks from behind me.

Turning my head, I see Gloria standing there, her face twisted in confusion. What the hell am I doing? And why does she look like I've just grown a second head? "Fine." It's all I can muster. A monosyllabic response to a stupid question.

"Well, the party's over," Gloria states, her tone anything but the characteristic saccharine I'm used to. "So any time you wanna go."

As the feeling returns to my feet, I stand, shaking my head. Is this glorified cheerleader kicking me out of a house that she has no dominion over? My vicious side has to laugh at that. It's not going to be nearly as easy to get rid of me. Not until I know what Mark was talking about earlier. "I think I'll go see what the girls have made," I tell her simply, as though I'm not making any waves at all.

There is a sarcastic huff from the woman in the kitchen doorway and I can't help throwing a glance over my shoulder. Her bright eyes have narrowed and her thin fingers rest on the curve of her hips. "You shouldn't have come back, Dahlia. The girls were okay without you, they would have been. And Mark was starting to get over the whole moping thing." She rolls her eyes and I can't help laughing on the inside. "You didn't want them. So why don't you just get out of the way and let me have him?"

"Him?" I ask, tilting my head. It's almost too easy to toy with the child. Is she even old enough to understand what's going on in this house? Has she known anything of real pain? Or is she living this life as some sort of prime time soap opera? Does she even understand that Mark's not going to hear some indie-pop hit and fall magically in love with her? That no amount of baby-sitting and super-special craft time is going to fool the girls into wanting her around? "Sweetheart, you can have him. He's not mine," I remind her. Though the words are difficult to speak, I can't help prodding her. There is something deliciously satisfying about watching the anger descending upon her delicate little features.

Her green eyes roll, and I can almost see the temper tantrum starting. I can't tell you how much I would like to see her throw herself on the floor and flail her arms and legs. I believe that I would take great pleasure in watching her collapse. "You know," she hisses, and I can see the "plastic" in her coming out.

With one eyebrow raised, I lean against the porch post and shake my head. "Everyone seems to think that I know something," I bait.

I'm not sure where I've found this humor, where this situation became funny, but I can barely contain my giggles as I watch her grapple with whatever is bothering her. I like watching her squirm and fidget. I know it's antagonistic, but I've already said I don't like her and this confrontation isn't helping anything.

"It's taken me three months to convince him that you weren't coming back." She tosses her hair, and I swear, at least in my mind, she arches her back and hisses. She's like a cat in a corner. Oh, I love this. "I don't mind Maggie callin' once in awhile, and I've tolerated the 'Dahlia always did it that way' protests. But I'm tired of living in your perfect shadow." With another flip of her hair, she takes a step forward. "So I'm gonna ask you to go one more time."

"And then what?" I prod, wondering if this bitch is really going to pick a fight with me. Over Mark? Over something else? I'm not really sure why she hates me so much, but I have to assume it's the same reason I can't stand her. "Are ya gonna hit me?"

I swear, I didn't mean to laugh. It just happens. Without any permission of my own. And boy, Gloria doesn't like it. "I've been training with Mark," she puffs out her chest, a satisfied smirk on her face. "Just like Kara used to do."

I can sense them. My family. They're standing behind me, and the only explanation I have for the delayed reaction is that time must have stopped for a minute.

Of course, when it restarts, Maggie's wrath is unleashed. "You don't get to say my mommy's name!" Tugging insistently at the leg of her father's pants, she points toward Gloria as though she were holding a smoking gun. "Tell her to shut her stupid mouth, Daddy!"

"Maggie," Mark's voice is firm, though his eyes never leave Gloria. "Dahlia, can you take the girls inside for a minute?"

Questioning his request never crosses my mind. I take a step off the porch and take Maggie into my arms, while offering another to Annie.

We make our way into the house and through the kitchen. "Come here, Annie-Bear," I coo, cradling Maggie to myself in the hopes of calming her shaking shoulders.

Annie crawls into my lap and sits across from her sister, her fingers flying to my hair and tangling themselves, as though trying to hold me in place.

"Maggie, Sweetie," I start, but she turns firey eyes to me. The expression nocks me back a bit.

"I hate her," she growls, pushing her curls from her face in anger. "She only likes Daddy."

Kissing the top of her head, I want more than anything to assure her that it's not true. I want to tell her that it's just going to take some time, but that they will grow to love each other eventually. But I've never really been able to lie to them, and I can't assure them of anything. Maggie's probably right. Instead of saying anything, I just hug her closer to my chest and kiss the top of her head.

"Stay, Dahlia," Annie whispers, one hand reaching out to touch her sister and the other still tightly wound into my hair.

Part of me says that I should have never come – that maybe Gloria was right and I would have been better off staying away. I wanted to see if I could handle returning, though I never really considered whether or not they could handle me coming back. Am I causing more pain to the girls by being here? That was never my intention.

After a few minutes of silence, I send the girls out the front door, instructing them to play with their cousins for a little while. I promise that I will come say 'good-bye' before I have to leave, and then I stand in the living room and stare at what still feels like my life.

Making my way to the mantle, I smile at the three pictures there. One is of the Calaway family – Mark, Kara, and the girls. There's another of Mark and the girls, one I don't recognize. It must be recent, though, because Annie's toothy grin is now fuller than it used to be. The final picture is one of myself and the girls, one that Mark took when we saddled up the horses and took them down the creek for a picnic.

Epiphanies are funny things – striking out of nowhere and seemingly splitting the foggy skies of your mind. Family doesn't go away just because you move. They don't cease to exist because you pack your bags and leave them. Family will always be family in some facet or another. And you can't force it out anymore than you can force your way in.

This is my family. No matter where I go, how pissed off I get at Mark, or how any of us moves through this crazy life, they are just as important to me as my own mother, father, siblings, and extended circle. They are a part of me – one that I can't just amputate and pretend as though never existed.

So, I'll never have the relationship with Mark that I have longed for. Maybe that will continue to haunt me for awhile. I'll embrace the tears and ache for the loss, but it won't change the fact that he has forever become an undeniable force in my life. It doesn't change the fact that I want to be available to him, to all of them, for the milestones in their lives. I want to be at Annie's birthday party, and at all the other events that are important to the girls. And if Mark should decide to marry again, I wanna be there, too. I wanna be there for them, like they've been here for me every time, without question.

"No!" Gloria's insistent demand shakes me from my revelry and I turn at the mantle with my arms crossed over my chest. "This is important to me, Mark! If this relationship is going to work, then you have to think about what I want, too!" She points to me, and her eyes are fully trained on him. "She's not a part of this. Not anymore. Either she goes, or I do."

Oh, I want to stay. Part of me really wants to fight her, but that's not my choice to make. He said himself that she was a good girl, that he liked having her around. It's not my place to make that more difficult for him. Am I backing down? Maybe. But I need to say good-bye to the girls and get back on the road. I have a job to get back to, and they need to sort out their own lives without me standing here to meddle.

Holding up a hand, I shake my head. "I was just leaving," I mumble, failing to truly meet Mark's eyes. Even in light of all the things I've come to realize, it's hard to stand in his presence without feeling butterflies.

"Dahlia," his deep voice tears through the air, firm and authoritative, as though planting me in my place.

And it works, too. Like a scolded child, I drop my hand back to my side and turn, my eyes searching his for something. What I'm looking for, I'm not sure. "I need to get back on the road," I assure him with a smile that lets him know I'll be okay. That little bitch is not going to affect me. I'm not going to let her. "I'll call you later," I wink, watching the proverbial steam pouring from the young woman's eyes as she turns toward me. With a little wave and a cheeky smile, I shut the front door behind me.


	24. Chapter 24

**Boys Don't Cry**

**A/N: So there is one more chapter after this, and then Mark and Dahlia will be put to bed. For those of you who don't know, the next project on my docket is the prequel to Angel Dust. I have it outlined and the first two chapters are ready to go. But I've got to get this one in the can first. Enjoy!**

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It's been nearly a month since I left Maggie's party, and you might not believe this, but things are going really well. Here's the thing I've learned over time: When you take your hands off the wheel, and you let things happen like their supposed to, they actually turn out pretty well. I know, it's a shock to me, too, but I have had more peace of the last month than I have in years. I love my life.

Mark and Gloria "broke up." According to him, there wasn't much a relationship to end, but she cried and carried on like they had been married for years. Pardon me while I shed a tear. From my constant laughter.

I know I shouldn't be so vindictive, but something about him asking her to leave, and her throwing a tantrum about it, fills with bubbling joy every time I think about it. And I know the girls were happy to see her go – it was the first thing Maggie told me about when we spoke on the phone the day after.

I've spoken to Mark on several occasions – most recently last night. His first house show back from injury is in Austin this weekend, and he's leaving the girls with his mom to come up early and hang out with me.

Yeah, you heard me. He's coming to my apartment to hang out. Now, before you get all excited, know that it's just a friend making dinner for another friend. Nothing too exciting. Well, not for anyone else. For me, it's a rush. It'll be like one of our old "porch" talks, without the porch. And though I'm giddy at the thought of spending time with him, it's important that you know I have no expectations.

I've moved beyond NEEDING him. Not that I would argue if he wanted to start something, but we have different lives now. He's traveling again, and I live hours away. To be honest, I think I've really, truly, finally come to terms with the fact that we are destined to be friends.

I am just putting the finishing touches on our salad for the evening when the knock sounds on the front door. Without so much as checking my hair in the microwave, I skip toward the entrance. I thought that I would be nervous to see him again, especially alone with no chance of an interruption, but I'm not. I'm just excited to see my friend again.

When I pull the door open, he's standing on the porch, staring at his feet. Dressed in jeans and a tee shirt, he smells like heaven. His hair is pulled back from his face and his smile brightens his face when I open the door wider.

"Come in," I invite, standing back and allowing him to enter.

His sheer size never ceases to amaze me. The way he has to lower his head just to fit through the door makes my heart flutter. I know that we're friends, but that doesn't mean I don't still find him incredibly attractive. His steps are long at first, but then he stops.

"You okay?" I ask, my eyebrow raised as I shut the door and lock it before returning my attention to him.

It's a blur, the way he spins in his place and cups my cheeks in his hands. His lips are on mine before I can even process that he's really here. He pulls my bottom lip between his and runs his tongue over the flesh, causing my hands to clench his arms for support.

My mind is spinning and I'm really not sure which direction it's going to decide to head next. I want to enjoy this, but what the hell has gotten into the stoic man I was ready to be over? Is he really kissing me? Is this what I was supposed to know?

Releasing me, Mark takes a step back and touches his thumb to his lip, his eyes fully-trained on my shocked, and confused, expression. "You didn't know," is all he says, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement as I blindly reach for the wall. For anything to keep me upright.

And the sight of him, especially with that damn smirk and that idiotic expression screaming that I should have known better, pisses me off. "No, Mark, I didn't know. Because you never fucking told me, or gave me any hint whatsoever, really."

His finger strokes the beard at his chin as he shakes his head and leans back against the couch. "Didn't think I had to. Thought you knew."

"Right," I nod. "Because you constantly telling me that I could do whatever I wanted with whoever I wanted, as long as I didn't do it in front of the girls was your profession of undying love?" This is all I have wanted for months – to feel him against me, to know that he wanted me. And I'm fighting it, why?

He just shrugs and moves his arms to the couch at his sides. "Well, that's cause I didn't know it, either, Dahl. I just thought I wasn't ready to move on. Didn't realize I was fallin' for ya."

Raising an eyebrow, I move toward the kitchen, checking on the baked potatoes in the oven. "Why d'ya seem so sure now?" I ask, checking to make sure he's still there over my shoulder. As far as I know, this could all be some crazy dream. "What changed your mind?"

"Gloria," he answers simply, another amused twinkle in his eyes as he waits to see how I'll respond to that. "When she caused her scene and ran outta the house, I wanted to call you and tell ya about it. Wanted you to laugh about it with me."

I throw my hot pads onto the counter and cross my arms, watching him across the island. "I wish you would have," I tell him, just the mention of her break down filling me with another bubble of joy. Stopping short, I step around the counter and move closer to him. "But what does that have to do with the kissing game at the front door?"

He blushes for the first time, the pink climbing up his throat and into his cheeks as he considers his words. "After Kara died," he starts, and I realize it's the first time he's ever said her name without flinching, "I used to wish she was there all the time. I used to wonder what she would think about my work, and I knew what she would think about some of the things I said. I missed hearing her laugh, seein' her eyes roll, feelin' her smack me in the back of the head.

"I know you weren't tryin' to, but somewhere 'long the way, you got in my head with her. And when you left, I started thinkin' shit 'bout you that I'd only thought 'bout her." He stops and sighs, reaching out from his place to grasp my hand, as though we're comfortable with one another, as though we do this all the time. "I missed you when you left, Dahl. And when Gloria left, I realized I wasn't thinkin' so much 'bout what Kara woulda thought. I wanted to share shit with you."

I really want to take his words at face value, but there's a part of me that isn't sure he's ready. He says that he is, but what if he's not? What if he decides, after my heart is totally invested, that he can't handle a relationship? What if he leaves me again?

"I miss you, Mark," I whisper and he pulls me to his side. With knowing eyes, he stares down at me with a look I've never seen from him before.

"But?" he prods.

It's my turn to blush as I pull away and stare down at the floor. "I don't wanna get hurt again," I manage to squeak out, knowing that I sound like a child.

And maybe I should have thought about that before. Maybe I should have considered the fact that getting what I want also means facing my greatest fear. I thought that I was running from rejection, but it's so much more than that. Intimacy with another man means holding my heart open and vulnerable. It means risking everything that has already happened to me with Jason, and then some.

"Neither do I," he responds, resting his hands on my waist and moving me until I stand in front of him. When I finally look up into his emerald eyes, he smiles. "And we might not live happily-ever-after. Who the hell needs to plan that far in advance right now?" he asks, tightening his grip on me until I'm pressed against his chest, pulling back to maintain eye contact. "Stupid for both of us to have feelings and not do somethin' 'bout it, don'tcha think?"

For a long moment, neither of us says anything. The silence feels golden as we communicate only with our eyes. "Wait a second," I finally say. "How do you know I have feelings for you?" I've never told him – I made sure not to tell him.

Rolling his eyes, he throws his head back and laughs. "I'm oblivious sometimes, Dahlia, but I'm not blind," he winks, dropping a kiss on the top of my head. "'Sides that, Gloria found one of my tee shirts in your room after you left. Said it smelled like your perfume. Like you'd been sleepin' in it."

"She's quite the junior detective, isn't she?" I ask, my voice less-than-thrilled that Gidget spilled my secret.

He laughs and bends his head toward me again, but this time, I'm ready. I'm ready to accept the one thing that I've been waiting for – the promise of a new beginning.


	25. Chapter 25

**Boys Don't Cry**

**A/N: Alright, this is it - the conclusion of Dahlia and Mark's story. I honestly can't believe it turned out so long, or that it was so widely and wonderfully accepted. Maybe I don't say it enough, but I love you guys! You're the best. **

**Some of you damn near demanded nookie from Mark and Dahlia - I hate putting sex in my epilogues, and I had scrapped my original plan to have them sleep together at all in the story. On your begging and pleading, Tara and Kim, I straddled the line - I hope it's acceptable. Enjoy!**

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My favorite thing about waking up in the middle of the summer is that chirping sound of birds that wakes you with the dawn. I know, it's annoying as hell to most people, but for me? It's beautiful. It's the sound of life, of God's beautiful creation starting the day, and inviting us to join them. Reminds me of Snow White. 

Can you tell I got laid last night? And that it was amazing? Just like it always is with Mark. He's enormous – in just about every way. In reality, he should probably have injured me by now. He's not exactly gentle all of the time, and in his defense, I told him I liked it like that. I do. I like it any way he wants to give it to me. I've been liking it like that for six months now.

When Mark came to my apartment that night, it was evident that things had changed forever. But what wasn't clear was what we were going to do about it. We ate the dinner that I had made, and settled in on the couch to watch a movie, but nothing happened beyond movie-watching, low conversation, and a little bit of kissing. Well, a lot of kissing. Well, I ended up on my back with him hovering over me, shirtless.

But it wasn't time. We both agreed that whatever we were building had to move slowly. We had to go at our own pace, to make sure that we were both comfortable with the next step when it came. Mark hadn't slept with another woman since Kara died – knowing that I was going to be the one with the honor of being his "first" was big. And it wasn't something that I wanted him to rush into. I wanted to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was there with me. That he was thinking about me, not her.

I'm not jealous of Kara's memory, in case you took that the wrong way. Really, I'm not. She was one of my very best friends, and I love the memories that Mark holds of her. I love the memories that I hold of her, and that the girls have. I love that she was a part of all of our lives, and that she probably had some huge hand in bringing Mark and I together in the end. If Mark needs a moment, in the wake of something we have done together, to reconcile it with her memory, I get that and I can let it happen in the knowledge that he wouldn't be with me if he didn't want to be.

Rolling to my side in the glaring sunshine, I grunt and bury myself into the solid flesh at my left. His arm closes around me protectively and I can't help but burrow further into his warm skin. We don't get to wake up together very often. The slow schedule they let him take when he first returned from his injury is long gone, and he's gone all the time now. When he does come home from the road, he usually goes to his house to spend time with the girls. I get him one day out of the three that he's home – if I'm lucky. Otherwise, I had to fly to wherever he is to have a few minutes alone with him.

He assures me that he's going to be done in a couple of years, or that he's going to scale way back. Between now and then, I'll probably move back to Houston, back into the house, and be waiting for a normal relationship when he's finished. But for now, I stay in Austin, with the life that I've built for myself, and away from prying little eyes that would never allow me two seconds alone with their father.

Oh, it wouldn't be their fault, of course, but the few times that I have visited Maggie and Annie in the last few months have been awkward at best. The girls don't know about their father and I – it was something that we agreed on that first night in my apartment. We're still feeling things out, still getting used to whatever this next step is, and we're not about to drag the girls through another situation like the one I put them through before. I still talk to them, still see them, and still love them like absolute craziness, but I'm still just Dahlia as far as their concerned. They're little hearts are just too fragile to risk becoming anything else too quickly.

They have a new nanny. A very sweet, very _grandmotherly_ woman. That was fun. I got to spend three days in Houston, interviewing and picking the proper woman for the job. Mark told me that nobody else knew as much about what the girls needed, and about what they liked, so it only made sense for me to choose. Plus, he didn't want me getting pissed off at his decision and holding out on him. My man is smart, isn't he?

When I feel Mark's fingers trail down my back, I shiver involuntarily. No matter what he does to me, those rough fingers dancing over my smooth skin always turns me to mush. He swears he doesn't know what I'm talking about, but I think he does it as a subtle hint that he's ready to go. He says that he doesn't do it on purpose, but that touch always miraculously seems to precede him grabbing me and pulling me on top of his body until I can't resist the feeling of him pressed against me. He really isn't stupid.

"Stop it," I mumble, shrugging my shoulders to stop the feeling. He barely responds, only grunts, which tells me that he's awake, but he's not happy about it. I'm learning things about him that I never thought I would ever know. The sounds of his grunts, the shrug of his shoulders – I know them now. I recognize them. I know him. "Stop," I whine, rolling toward his hand when he repeats the motion.

"Time?" he manages to ask, his face rolling toward mine, though his eyes are still tightly closed. When I don't answer, he risks slowly peeling one eye open, barely focusing on anything as his eye settles on a section of my head. "Dahl," he states.

I raise my eyes, his lips just centimeters from my nose. "Hm?" I ask, unable to resist the urge to kiss the tip of his chin. God, he really is beautiful, even when he's all grouchy in the morning. "Not moving," I moan, wrapping my arm tighter around his waist and returning my face to his side.

But Mark's awake. And if there's anything I know about him, it's that he doesn't fall asleep after he's awake in the morning. It might take him a few minutes to wake up, but once he does? There's no reason everyone shouldn't get up and get something productive done. He moves his arm, nudging me. "We gotta get up," his gravelly voice insists.

"Why?" I can't help crying out like a child awakened on a Saturday morning. We don't have anything to do today. His flight doesn't leave until afternoon. Mine leaves even later. There is absolutely no reason to climb out of the cocoon of these covers, and there's certainly no reason to put clothes on. Not yet. Not when we have so little time together already. "Stay," I insist, trying my best to hold him down with the hand across his stomach.

Like I could stand a chance of holding him in place. My itty bitty arm looks like a twig against a tree trunk when I'm draped over him. If Mark wants to get up, he's gonna get up. And I'm going to have no choice but to pout at him, and ignore him for the first three hours that we are up. That seemed to work the last time.

"Come here," he whispers, flipping me instantly onto his chest. It's not exactly graceful – these things never are in real life – but I am splayed across his body, and there's nowhere in the world I would rather be in that moment, or any other.

Allowing my eyes to close again, I hug his hips with my knees, and his neck with my arms, my cheek pressed against his chest. "Good pillow," I mumble into his pectoral muscle, giggling slightly when it flexes beneath my face.

And his damn hands start wandering again. Over my shoulder blades, down my spine, brushing the small of my back, tracing the curve of my ass, tickling the soft skin at the tops of my thighs. This is where Mark is best. This is where he barely touches my skin and somehow makes me squirm and shift enough to allow him room to tease my opening with his hardness. And like a moron, I know he's going to do it, and I fall for it every time. It's like his hands have hypnotic powers, like I can't help surrendering to fires his touch leaves in its wake. Like I can't help but take him in.

I always let out the same surprised gasp, and my head always shoots up to meet his eyes in shock. He always chuckles and raises his head from the pillow to capture my lips in his while his hands grip the globes of my back side and pull them toward him, causing me to rotate my hips over him. I break our kiss and straighten my back, glaring at him as I claw at his chest. "You're not cute," I tell him, shaking my head, but he just smiles tweaks my nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

With his hands on my hips, I enjoy the feeling of him sheathed fully inside me. I love waking up this way. When it's over, I'll be angry with him for awhile, for not having the kind of job where this kind of wake up call is possibly every day. I know it's not his fault, but I always slip into that funk when I watch him pack his bags. It's not that I don't understand, I just don't like watching him walk away.

Our early-morning play has barely finished, and I'm still gasping for air, when the phone on my side of the bed begins to ring. Without a second thought, I grab it. "Hello?"

"Dahlia?" Maggie's voice seems confused. "Is that you?"

I shovel my hair out of my face and cover the mouthpiece, gasping for a breath and mouthing her name to Mark. His eyes grow wide, but I just smack his hand when he reaches for the phone. "What's up, Munchkin?" I ask easily, leaning back against the headboard as Mark tries to get my attention again.

"Why are you on my Daddy's phone?" Maggie asks and my heart drops to my toes. I look at Mark with an expression of horror, and his sensitive ass just smirks. I smack his thigh beneath the sheets, and he claps a hand over his mouth to keep his laughter muffled. "I thought Daddy was in Denver."

_He is. Daddy is in Denver. And so am I. So that I can continue to have a torrid, dirty affair with Daddy without your prying eyes there to ask when we're getting married_. But since I can't tell her that, I just swallow, knowing full-well that she is far too intelligent to accept any lies that I might be able to come up with. "Well, Sweetie," I start.

She sighs and I can almost see her little hand on her hip and her little eye rolling. "Is my daddy there?" she asks and I can't help biting my lip to keep from laughing. I feel like a high school kid who's just been caught in her bed with her boyfriend. And Maggie reminds me so much of my mother, I'm not sure it's funny.

I hand the phone to Mark, who stops laughing immediately. I never understood how he could do that, but he can go from goofy, silly, and rolling with laughter, to straight-faced and stoic at the snap of a finger. With my hand over the receiver, I kiss his cheek and move toward the bathroom. He can handle this one – not my place to explain to his kid why her former nanny, and the woman she always wanted to have as a second mommy, is answering his phone first thing in the morning.

By the time I step out of the shower, he is leaning against the desk by the window, the phone still to his ear. "I promise I will be home in a little bit, Princess," he turns, framed by the morning sun, and smiles, holding out an arm for me to join him. "Did you wanna say 'bye' to Dahlia?"

Wrapped only in a towel, I step between Mark's open knees, resting my back against his chest, and a hand against his thigh, as he hands me the phone. "Hey, Sweetie," I answer sweetly, the butterflies in my stomach awaiting my punishment. "How are you?"

There is a giggle and a shriek. "I just wanted to say I told you so!" she exclaims with a shriek and a giggle, and I know she's doing a happy dance. God, I love this child. When she's calmed herself, she clears her throat, like her father always does when he's trying to play it cool. When the Undertaker is just too cool for something like a childish outburst of excitement. "Still mad that Daddy didn't tell me you guys were in love, but it's the bestest news ever, Dahlia!" I know what comes next, and I can't help but smile when she declares that she can't wait for me to be her new mommy.

Sometimes I can't wait for that, either. Don't get me wrong – it will still be awhile before either Mark or myself is ready to take that permanent step. To be honest, I'm not sure Mark's the kind of guy who ever wants to remarry. And I'm not sure I do, either. We both still have issues – we both still worry about losing the person who means the world to us. We both still carry those scars. But maybe. Someday. At least, if the girls get their way.

After I say goodbye, I disconnect the call and turn in Mark's arms. "She's gonna expect a wedding now," I tell him, clinging to his neck because sometimes I think I'll never be able to be close enough to him.

He pulls my hips flush against him and rests his clasped hands against the curve of my bottom. It is moment like these, when we stand against the vastness of the world, and the emotions, around us and simply hold one another, that I know I want to be with this man forever. Yeah, there are other factors, but if it could just be this forever? I would sign up today.

"Do you?" he asks and I just shake my head. Sometimes he looks so vulnerable, so sweet and almost innocent. Sometimes I just want to sit on the couch and hold his head in my lap, running my fingers through his dark hair until he falls asleep and the pressure of the world just melts away from his creased forehead. "You sure? Cause I don't know when," he starts.

But I press a finger to his lips and shake my head. "We are fine," I assure him. "I like where we are. I like being with you. Whatever this is, baby?" I raise to my tip-toes and kiss his bottom lip. "It's enough for me."

He lifts my feet from the floor so quickly I barely know what's happening. Tossing me onto the bed, he climbs over me and pulls my towel away. His eyes sweep my body and he meets my eye with a look I have never seen. I know him pretty well, but sometimes he still manages to surprise me. Lowering himself onto me, he squirms until he's cradled between my thighs, never breaking eye contact. "I love you, Dahl."

There was a time when those words would have made me roll my eyes and chuckle. There was a time when those words were nothing more than a cruel joke Jason used to play. And there was a time when you couldn't have done anything to convince me that Mark would ever mean those words to anyone but Kara.

But nothing has ever been so evident in someone's face. He loves me. Mark Calaway loves me. It's a crushing realization, but one that fills me with something I can't explain – the need to giggle and sob all at once. With one hand on the back of his neck, I pull his face to mine and brush my lips against his. "I love you, too."


End file.
